


Send Me An Angel

by AmberAnnh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Asexual Castiel, Asexual Character, Discussion of mental illness, Firefighter Dean, Gen, M/M, Other, but not TOTALLY AU, show-level violence, temporary mcd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberAnnh/pseuds/AmberAnnh
Summary: Accountant Cas Novak and firefighter Dean Winchester don’t have anything in common on the surface, but a chance encounter at their mutually frequented eclectic coffee shop is the catalyst that jump-starts a profound friendship that just might grow into something else, something strong enough to save the world.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Scorpions’ ballad of the same name (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UUYjd2rjsE). Part titles are lyrics from the song “Rock Out, Roll On” by Triumph (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-wHjkQcYSY).

**Acknowledgements:**

Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me through writing this! Especially to Askeiel who’s unfortunate apartment situation (and subsequent tweets about it) sparked the idea for the whole thing, and also to Alethiometry for most of my Sam/Jess worldview ( [ via this LJ post ](http://alethiometry.livejournal.com/118200.html) ). Neither of you know how much you inspired this story, so thank you. 

  
And a HUGE shout-out to my wonderful artist, Klaudia ( _ precariousfaith _ )! I’ve embedded her fabulous work in the fic, but you should definitely go check out  [ her tumblr ](http://precariousfaith.tumblr.com/) for more awesomeness!

 

***

 

Dean’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the sign. Giant white letters on a familiar green background:  

Topeka 64

Lawrence 90

 

He’d been driving to Lawrence, pulled back there without even realizing it. Dean spun the wheel, guided the Impala through an illegal U-turn on I-70, and headed back into the last town he’d passed: Junction City. Dean’s bones ached with exhaustion, but he didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t want to dream. He needed a few stiff drinks to forget why he was driving. Some company for his bed tonight wouldn’t hurt either, especially if it’d mean he didn’t have to shell out for a hotel room. Hotels sucked ass in August in the Midwest; they never had decent AC.

 

He pulled off at the first biker dive he saw, the Impala’s tires crunching over gravel as he parked her under a flickering light in the tiny, half-full lot. Dean checked his watch. Guess he shouldn’t have expected a big crowd at 12:46 a.m. on a Wednesday.

 

The bar itself was small enough to appear crowded, the locals all scattered at various booths, tables, and stools. Three burly, leather-clad men had a game going at pool table in the corner, Dean noted. He could hustle for hotel money if he struck out or the pickings were too slim.

 

Turning away from the game before his quick assessment of his potential opponents’ skills drew attention, Dean moseyed up to the bar, sliding onto a not-too-sticky stool. The balding bartender glanced his way, deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman in black leather pants and a braid. Dean waved two fingers and the bartender jerked his chin in acknowledgment.

 

Waiting to get served, Dean let his gaze wander the other patrons. Ruling out dudes and anyone over 40, there were only three possible marks. Since two of them were at a table together, heads bent toward one another, sitting just close enough to signal non-interest in other comers, Dean set his sights on his one shot for the night: a pretty brunette in dark jeans and a halter top talking to a couple rough-looking guys near the dart board.

 

“What can I getcha?” the bartender drew Dean’s attention back.

 

“Whiskey, neat.” Dean didn’t have the patience tonight for anything other than the burn of straight liquor. Drink in hand, he strolled over to a table near Brunette and settled in to watch her flirt.

 

She had game. She laughed at all the right times, played with her hair, casually brushed against the tall dark and (kind of) handsome she was working. Dean caught her eye a couple times, content to lurk in the background for now. He enjoyed playing the long game.

 

Ten minutes later, Brunette headed for the ladies’ room and the burly guys started up a game of darts. Dean moved to lean against a high-top along the path she’d taken to the restroom, sipping at the dregs of his whiskey. If this didn’t go his way, he’d need at least one more before hustling pool, or (worst case) heading out for an uncomfortable nap in the backseat of the Impala.

 

Brunette emerged from the restroom and spotted Dean immediately. She grinned and beelined toward him.

 

“You stalking me?”

 

Dean smiled back and shook his head. “Nah. Just wondering what the hell you were doing with Flotsam and Jetsam back there.” He jerked his head toward the duo playing darts.

 

She raised a coy eyebrow. “Just having a little fun. What do you care?”

 

“Maybe I want in on the game.” He straightened, gazing down at her. He knew it showed off his height. She seemed like the kind of girl who’d like a physically impressive partner.

 

She bit her lip. “If you’re going to play, I need a name.”

 

“Dean Winchester.” He held out his right hand (always a winning move with classy chicks). “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Likewise.” Her handshake was confident and well-practised. “I’m Lisa Braeden.”

 

Nice name, Dean thought. Time for more casual small talk. “So, you a regular here?”

 

“No, I’m just visiting.” Lisa twisted a thick lock of hair around one finger. “I’m attending a conference in town for work. Needed to blow off some steam after a full day of icebreakers and networking.”  

 

 _That explains the handshake_ , Dean thought. “Oh? What conference?”

 

She shook her hair back from her face and grinned again. “The American Association of Yoga Therapists, Midwest Chapter.”

 

 _Jackpot!_ Dean crowed in his head.

 

“It’s our annual convention,” Lisa continued, smug. “I was on the planning committee.”

 

Dean grinned back. “Fascinating. So you’re a yoga teacher?”

 

She nodded, undressing him with her eyes. “You look kind of tense. How about we go back to your place and I take you through a few poses?”

 

Hell yes. But...

 

“I’m new in town, too. Don’t really have a place yet,” Dean admitted, not sure why he hadn’t gone with his typical ‘just passing through’ line. ‘New in town’ sounded so... permanent.

 

Lisa nibbled on her bottom lip. “Well, I’m staying in a friend’s property on the other side of town since hotels are frickin’ expensive. Fair warning, it’s kind of a dive. He’s trying to rent it out as two apartments, but nobody’s taken the one-bedroom on the second floor yet. If you’re okay with sharing a wall with a stranger...”

 

Dean shrugged. “I’ve never really been into having an audience, but as long as you can’t see through the walls, I’m okay with it.”

 

She laughed. “It’s not quite _that_ bad. You mind driving?”

 

Dean finished off his whiskey and slung an arm around her shoulders. “I’d love to introduce you to my baby.”

 

“You’re already cheating on me?” Lisa teased, leaning into him. “Maybe I should reconsider taking you home with me for the night.”

 

“Just the night?”

 

“Maybe longer.” She winked. “Depends how tonight goes.”

 

Dean squeezed her shoulder, then opened the door for her. “How long are you in town?”

 

Lisa smiled, predatory now. “Another four days.”

 

***

 

The rhythmic squeaks and thumps started up again. “For fuck’s sake. Are you serious?” Cas Novak grumbled, wrapping his pillow around his head to muffle the noise. His new upstairs neighbors were going at it again.

  
One of these days Cas was going to get pissed enough to march upstairs and teach them some manners.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part One: Rock Out, Roll On

Dean found out he was an orphan on September 28, 2007. It really shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but there you go. He’d not seen nor spoken to John Winchester in over three years, since Sammy walked out on them and left for Stanford. That had been the worst night of Dean’s life, edging out the night of his mother’s death simply because the pain was more fresh. Seeing his family split down the middle (again) and not being able to stop it ripped up Dean’s insides. John left their motel room the next day and never came back. Abandoned by the two people closest to him within twenty-four hours. Story of Dean’s life, really.

 

Despite his family’s track record, Dean’s chest tightened and his eyes burned as the doctor on the other end of the phone said things like “emergency contact” and “did all they could” and “other next of kin?”. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, there’s no one else.” No one who cared, anyway. Hell, Sammy might even be _ happy _  about it. If Dean ever managed to get a hold of him to tell him John was out of their lives, for good this time.

 

Dean will have to tell his little brother their dad died because he gave up on him after Sam left.

 

His stomach roiled.

 

“Mr. Winchester?”

 

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

 

“Your father’s personal effects are here at the hospital. They’ll be released to you when you come in to formally identify the body.”

 

Right. This wasn’t something he could take care of over the phone. Dean glanced at the clock on his nightstand. The blurry red numbers read “3:36 A.M.” Shit. 

 

“He’s at Geary?” he asked. The doc gave an affirmative, and Dean did mental math on the drive time. “How long will it take?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I have to go on a 24-hour shift in three hours, so if I come in now will I be done by 6:00?”

 

“Yes, that should be plenty of time.”

 

“Great. I’ll see you in 20.” Dean hung up and lay back against his now-cool pillow. “Fuck.”

 

***

 

“No, Mr. Garrison. You can’t just write fifty $100 checks,” Cas explained with all the patience he could muster. “IRS regulations clearly state in order for your foundation to maintain its 501(c)(3) status you must raise $5,000 in small dollar donations  _ from multiple donors _ .” 

 

Cas pulled the receiver away from his ear, Mr. Garrison’s muffled rage barking out into Cas’s empty office rather than directly into his eardrumb. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I didn’t write the regulations, Mr. Garrison,” he tried after his client ran out of breath. “I just consult you on how to follow them.”

 

Cas stared out the window, half-listening to the lawyer’s complaints that he wasn’t working hard enough to keep his pet charitable project afloat (which allowed Garrison to deduct a healthy amount off his personal income taxes, Cas knew), until one accusation stung through his practiced apathy. 

 

Squeezing the receiver so hard it squeaked, Cas bit out “It’s not my job to find loopholes! I’m not some shady mafia accountant. I spend more time trying to keep your charity solvent than you do!” 

 

Silence on the other end of the line.

 

Click.

 

Cas groaned. He’d pissed off a client, a big, powerful client. He was going to get written up for this, for sure. Cas sighed. Dean’s outspokenness was rubbing off on him. Once, Cas would have bit his tongue, ducked his head, and done his job. He would have hated himself for it, but he would have done it. All things considered, Cas was glad he’d absorbed some of Dean’s defiance. He just hoped it wouldn’t get him fired. 

 

He pulled out his phone to text Dean about the incident. He also wanted to ask Dean why he’d gotten up so damn early the morning — the front door squeaked horrendously and always woke Cas when Dean came in or went out late. Cas was about to hit “send” when he remembered Dean started a shift this morning and probably wouldn’t be checking his phone. He pocketed the device again. It would have to wait.

 

Rubbing his eyes, Cas turned back to his dual monitors and returned to the work Mr. Garrison’s call had interrupted: the balance sheet audit for a local bank, one with a lot of real estate loans going bad, from the looks of it.  

 

Cas hoped, wherever he was, Dean was having a better day than him.

 

***

 

Dean expected a cold, metallic room with harsh lighting and a gruff cop or two. Instead, a pretty redhead — her nametag read “Geary Community Hospital - Liz Bethel, Morgue Attendant” — led him to a small room painted in soft colors and a dark circular table in the center. She motioned for him to sit, then said “The Coroner, Dr. Cartwright, will be in shortly. Do you want a water or a coffee or anything?” 

 

Not quite trusting himself to talk, Dean shook his head. Liz shut the door softly as she left. Elevator music played in the background. Dean stared at the table and tried not to think. He failed.

 

A knock on the door announced Dr. Cartwright’s arrival and gave Dean enough time to wipe his eyes with his knuckles before turning to face the door.

 

“Mr. Winchester, thank you for coming.” Cartwright’s dark, wrinkled eyes were warmer than eyes that saw the cold hand of death all the time had any right to be. 

 

Dean nodded in reply. “So, how’s this work, doc?”

 

Cartwright smiled. “Please, call me Joshua.” He sat across from Dean and laid a white envelope between them. “The identification is a formality, in this case, since the deceased’s fingerprints returned a match. However, inside this envelope are a few photos that I need you take a look at, when you feel you’re ready. One is of the deceased’s face, and the others are of a tattoo and a scar that may help in identifying him.” 

 

Dean frowned. “So, I don’t get to see him?”

 

Joshua shook his head. “I don’t think you really want to. Take a look at the pictures, and after you confirm that the deceased is John Winchester we’ll release the body to a funeral director. They’ll clean him up and make sure that when you do see him, it won’t be as... traumatic.”

 

“Dude, I’m a firefighter. I see traumatic shit all the time.” 

 

Joshua slid the envelope forward. “I’m sorry, but this is all I can offer you today.”

 

Dean bit his tongue and grabbed the envelope. Gripping it tightly so his hands wouldn’t shake, he flipped open the unsealed flap and tipped the edges of the photos onto his fingers. He licked his lips, took a breath, and yanked the photos out, like ripping off a bandaid.

 

His dad’s tattoo caught Dean’s eye first. The top photo depicted a small patch of John’s chest, the black ink dark — fresh — the intricate pattern of flames and a pentagram distorted by a jagged cut. “Guess it didn’t protect him after all,” Dean muttered.

 

“What was that?”

 

Dean cleared his throat. “It’s my dad. I recognize the tattoo. He designed it himself.”  _ Made me and Sammy get one, too. _ A phantom itch needled the skin above Dean’s heart, where his ink hid underneath his gray henley.

 

Dean flipped to the next photo: a thick, ropey scar curved down the back of John’s leg, left or right, Dean didn’t know. That one was new. Apparently John had been busy during the past three years of radio silence. 

 

Dean closed his eyes as he turned over the final photo. It took him several long seconds to get up the courage to open them. Joshua kept his peace the whole time.

 

John’s eyes were closed. Dean was grateful for that. His skin could’ve been drawn with chalk, except for the cuts and bruises covering it. Both eyes were bulging black and blue, his lower lip was split, and his jaw looked broken. 

 

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Winchester.”

 

“What the hell happened?” His dad may have been an angry, obsessive, crazy bastard but there was no way he deserved this kind of beating.

 

“Most likely a mugging gone bad. The police are still investigating, but he didn’t have any valuables on him when he came into the ER, and before he lost consciousness he told the nurses he’d been in a fight. The damage to his internal organs was too severe to overcome.” Joshua collected the photos and replaced them in the envelop. “There currently are no suspects, but the police will keep you as informed as possible as they continue their investigation.”

 

“So my dad gets fucking  _ beat to death  _ and the cops don’t even care?” Dean shouted. “Am I hearing that right?”

 

“They are doing all they can. There is very little evidence to go on.” The doctor raised a placating hand. “Please sit down, Mr. Winchester.” 

 

Dean realized he’d stood up. He took a deep breath and sat. “So, what’s next?”

 

Joshua studied him for a moment, but Dean passed whatever the test was, because he continued, “That’s all we needed you for. Liz will give you a list of funeral directors on your way out. Please contact one and they will help you make all the necessary arrangements going forward. Do you have any other questions?”

 

Dean shook his head. It was all so... perfunctory. Then again, people died by the thousands every day. Why should he expect everyone else’s world to tilt on its axis when his did? It’s not like the Winchesters were anything special. 

 

***

 

Chief Turner would tan Dean’s hide if he knew he punched in for a shift on three hours of sleep, but no way in hell was Dean gonna make one of the guys sub for him on such short notice. Two and a half years into the job, he still felt the need to prove himself. Luck was with him, for once. Twenty-three hours in, and no calls. The station averaged 12 calls per day, so it was odd to have a day with zero activity, but Dean wasn’t looking this gift horse in the mouth. 

 

Dean sprawled out on his bunk, the funeral home brochures he’d collected from the morgue spread out in front of him, along with his dad’s stuff. Other than his journal, John’s personal effects amounted to a couple fake IDs (confiscated by the PD), a bowie knife (also confiscated), a couple of wrinkled business cards, and a rosary (currently serving as a bookmark in the journal). Dean stashed the business cards in the front pocket of the journal and spent the bulk of his shift poring through the whole damn thing. He’d known his dad had paranoia issues — he’d lived in the eye of that hurricane for two decades — but  _ this _ ... He had no idea his dad’s delusions were so deep and complex. No wonder they’d run his life. 

 

Dean turned the journal over again, hands stroking the worn leather as he flipped it to the final page again. On his first page-through, he’d almost dropped the book when he saw his name written in his dad’s messy scrawl. Lips tracing the words, Dean read the letter again. 

 

_ Dean, _

 

_ If I don’t make it out of this, this book will end up with you. All you need to know is that it’s all real, and they’ll probably come after you. I don’t have much time, so here are the basics: _

 

_ Salt = protection. Form a circle and most evil things can’t get at you. _

 

_ Iron = poison to ghosts. It makes them disappear. _

 

_ Silver = hurts most things that can change how they look. Don’t trust anyone you haven’t tested.  _

 

_ Holy water = hurts demons. Again, DON’T TRUST ANYONE. You can also force a demon to reveal itself by saying “Christo” _

 

_ Remember this, Dean. _ _ It could save your life. _

 

_ I hope I’m wrong, but it’s demons you’ll have to worry about. I’m hunting bastard that killed Mary. It’s a demon with yellow eyes, but I haven’t learned its name. He wants me dead because I found something that can kill him. A gun, made by a demon-hunter named Samuel Colt back in 1835. Legend has it, that gun can kill anything. Must be true, given how bad these fuckers want it. There’s only one bullet left, so I hope you kept up your target shooting.  _

 

_ You can’t let the demons get their hands on that gun. I hid it, but you’ll be able to find it if you need to.  _

 

_ I’m almost out of time, but you need to know one more thing. I trapped a demon that worked for Yellow Eyes, and told me they have plans for Sam. I don’t know what that means, but I feel it in my gut something bad’s coming. _

 

_ Watch out for Sam. _

 

Underneath, a baffling list of numbers and letters mocked Dean’s inability to understand his own father’s mind. He wanted to ignore the letter, bury it with the rest of his dad’s crazy. But... 

 

The dark pit in his stomach wouldn’t let him.

 

This scribbled, rushed note is the most concern that John had ever shown for him. His dad’s urgency dripped from the page like ink. He couldn’t shake it. 

 

Dean cursed and jumped out of his skin when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

 

“Whoa! Easy there, rookie,” Hendricksen teased. No one had joined the department since Dean was hired, and the guys still gave him crap for it. Dean used it as motivation.

 

“Shit,” Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. His face heated as he realized he’d made a fool of himself in front of his lieutenant. Victor Hendricksen was a natural leader and a great boss. When you walked into a burning building after him, you knew he’d get you all back out safe. Even now, Dean still wanted to impress him so badly it physically hurt. He tried to play off his embarrassment with humor. “You scared the crap out of me, might need to change the sheets.” 

 

Hendricksen chuckled. “I noticed.”

 

Dean scrambled to his feet. “What do you need me to do, sir?” He racked his brain trying to think of a duty he could’ve missed, but with no calls all the typical cleaning and food prep got done hours ago. 

Still smiling, Hendricksen stuck a thumb at the clock hanging on the wall. “Just wondering if you were planning on going home anytime soon.”

 

Dean blinked at the time. 6:15 a.m. He should have punched out at least 10 minutes ago. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

 

“It happens, kid. Don’t worry about it. Just let Jo know on your way out.” Dean nodded. Jo Harvell not only managed the office and day-to-day goings on at the station, she kept all the guys in line and went toe-to-toe with the Chief and the Mayor if she felt they weren’t being taken care of. He didn’t want to get on her bad side.

 

As soon as Hendricksen disappeared into the locker room, Dean snapped the journal closed and rolled off the mattress. He grabbed the bag from his locker, stashing the journal, rosary, and brochures inside as he trotted down the stairs. He popped his head in the front office and asked Jo to retroactively punch him out — “I’d be happy to hit you back in time any day, Winchester,” she snarked, waving him on his way — before making his way out into the crisp morning air. 

 

His baby was waiting for him right in front of the building. The black ‘67 Impala sat in one of the free parking spaces reserved for on-duty firemen, gleaming in the sunrise. Dean tossed his bag in the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. This car was more his home than any building. He always felt more settled inside her steel walls.

 

Taking a deep breath, Dean pulled out his phone. He couldn’t procrastinate any longer. It rang five times before the line picked up. “Dean?”

 

“Heya, Sammy. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

 

“What’s up?”

 

Dean wet his lips. “I got some news for you, didn’t want to text.”

 

“Why not? You know that works better for me.” 

 

_ Only since you decided you don’t want to talk to me anymore, _ Dean thought. “Well, it’s not exactly good news,” he explained out loud. “It’s actually pretty bad news.”

 

“What? Dean, tell me!” 

 

Dean hoped the sudden worry in Sam’s voice wouldn’t morph into relief. He didn’t think he could handle his brother being anything but upset about their dad’s death. Not right now. He cleared his throat and bit the bullet. “Dad’s dead.” 

 

Silence. 

 

Dean tried to be patient, he really did. “Sammy? Are you still there?”

 

A shuffling noise, then a woman’s muffled voice in the background. “Dean, I’m sorry to hear that, but Dad and I haven’t talked in three years, so I hope you’re not expecting me to be crushed.” 

 

That was... colder than Dean’d been bracing for. “He’s our  _ dad _ , Sam.” He kept his voice even, barely.

 

“No, Dean,” Sam argued. “You were more my parent than he ever was, as messed up as that sounds.” The woman’s garbled voice interrupted again.

 

Trying to diffuse the old argument before it started, Dean deflected. “That Jess I hear in the background? You wouldn’t shut up about her last time we talked.”  _ Six months ago _ , he added silently. Texting was great, but Dean decided long ago it was no substitute for actually  _ talking _ . 

 

More background noise Dean couldn’t identify. “No, it’s not Jess.” Sam sounded distracted. “Look, I have to go to class. I’ll call you later.”

 

He hung up before Dean could say goodbye, or ask why the hell Sam had class at six-thirty a.m. on a Saturday.

 

Dean rubbed his eyes again. He wanted to go home and sleep, just forget about the past thirty or so hours, but he was way too wired. Coffee time. 

 

He turned the ignition and steered the Impala toward the smallest, best coffee joint in town: Marv’s.

 

***

 

Sam jerked his phone away from his ear and jabbed the “End Call” button before he lost control. His throat ached from keeping the anger out of his voice. 

 

“They killed my dad.”

 

Ruby’s face morphed from annoyed (that he’d interrupted their appointment) to sympathetic. “Sam, I’m so sorry. Do you know for sure?...”

 

“That it was the demons?” Sam interrupted. “What else could it have been? You said yourself he had demons on his ass the last thing you heard.”

 

She winced. “Yeah. Damn. Not the way I’d want to go out.” 

 

Sam shot her a look. Sometimes Ruby forgot how to act around normal people. Hunters weren’t real social, apparently. 

 

Ruby ducked her head in apology, brown hair falling over her face. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be insensitive.” She shook her hair back over one shoulder. “But it’s not like we didn’t see this coming,” she pointed out. 

 

Sam bit his lip. “Yeah. I just didn’t expect—”

 

“You didn’t expect them to actually take him out.” Ruby’s habit of finishing his sentences used to annoy Sam, but more often than not she got it right.

 

“I fantasized about seeing him again, once you showed me he wasn’t just insane,” Sam confessed. “I’d show him I’m a hunter now, prove myself. He wouldn’t be disappointed in me.” Sam clenched his fists. “He should’ve called me for help. If I’d been there—”

 

“You’d have been killed, too,” Ruby interrupted. Sam opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off. “Who swooped in and saved your ass when that demon attacked you?”

 

“You did,” Sam acquiesced. “But you’ve been teaching me—” 

 

“And it was a bitch of a fight, if you recall,” Ruby talked over his protest. “I’ve been training and fighting those sons of bitches my  _ entire life _ and one was almost more than I could handle.” She stepped close enough Sam felt her breath on his arm. “You dad had a whole  _ pack _ of them after him. Probably five or six. There was nothing you could have done. You’re not ready for that.”

 

Sam swallowed, clenched his jaw against the awful sting of  _ not good enough _ . His anger simmered just beneath the surface. “He’s my dad, Ruby. Sucky childhood or not, he didn’t deserve this. I just wish...” He trailed off, knowing Ruby would pick up his thoughts.

 

“You could’ve stopped it? Protected him?” Sam nodded. Ruby rested a hand on his shoulder. “I get it, Sam. You weren’t strong enough to save him, and it eats at your gut...” Sam felt a dark pit inside him, growing wider and deeper the more he thought about how John died. “...But you can get strong enough to get revenge.” 

 

Sam snapped his eyes open. 

 

“I have something for you.” Ruby circled around to his front, slipping a small vial from her back pocket. The clear glass revealed a thick, crimson liquid. 

 

Sam’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

 

“Human blood, mostly.” Sam balked. Ruby rolled her eyes. “Don’t get squeamish on me now, princess. I told you I know a bit of spellwork. Drink enough of this, in the right doses, and you’ll be able to take down any demon you want.”

 

Sam stared at the red concoction Ruby dangled between two fingers, lured. “Whose blood?” he managed to ask. 

 

“Mine.” Sam looked at her in surprise. “Yeah, I opened a vein for you so you’d know it’s clean. Don’t spit on my gift.”

 

Sam wrestled with himself for another moment. Drinking blood didn’t seem like it could ever be a good idea, but then again he’d recently banished an angry spirit by digging up a rotting corpse, so... 

 

“How does it work?” he asked. 

 

“Magic,” Ruby answered, the  _ duh, you idiot _ clear in her voice.

 

Sam stared at the vial. 

 

“If you want justice for your father, Sam, this is how.”

 

She was right. It was the only way.

  
Sam reached out, wrenched the stopper out of the neck, and downed the blood in one gulp.


	3. Chapter 2

**August 3, 2005**

 

“Winchester, D.” must have found a rabbit’s foot under the floorboards, because he got lucky  _ all the time _ . Cas had dubbed him “Dick Winchester” as soon as the messy scrawl beside the buzzer informed him he was no longer the sole tenant in the derelict converted Victorian. Cas’s once-peaceful dwelling now featured the muffled soundtrack of Dick’s conquests — five different women over the past two weeks, by Cas’s reckoning. The man he shared a roof with also appeared to have no set schedule ( _ barbaric _ , Cas thought), featuring audibly enthusiastic romps at 2:00 in the morning and noon, on weeknights and weekends. Dick Winchester’s ability to disrupt Cas’s life knew no bounds. 

 

Many other men would have moved out, but Cas’s obstinence insisted he renew his lease, outlast his opponent. Besides, his two-bedroom apartment was large for the price, catered to his traditional (bordering on old-fashioned) tastes, had a better view than the upstairs unit, and included a space in the detached garage. Cas knew he’d never find another home he liked as well, and he wasn’t about to give it up. 

 

Though, mornings like this one made it tempting. Dick and his partner of the moment had woken Cas with their pleasure just after midnight, and were now providing rhythmic background noise for his morning routine.  _ How can one man have so much sex? _ Cas wondered.  _ It can’t possibly be  _ that  _ good _ .

Sighing, he towel-dried his unruly dark hair, zipped up his favorite navy blue hoodie ambled into his home office/second bedroom to spend some time with two of his favorite things: coffee and spreadsheets. He pressed “brew” on the coffee maker resting on the table serving as his desk (Cas didn’t see the point in walking all the way to the kitchen every time he wanted a cup) and settled into his oversized, comfy chair. Cas placed newly purchased noise-canceling headphones over his ears and took a deep, settling breath. Beethoven wasn’t Cas’s usual choice of composer, but he was reliably louder than the...  _ ambient _ noise emanating from the ceiling.

 

A few hours and one more pot of coffee later, Cas rose and cracked his back. He’d finished his most important project for the day (a quarterly internal audit for one of the firm’s most important commercial clients). Time for a change of location before he tackled the next item on his meticulous to-do list. Very few things in life gave Cas more satisfaction than an organized, well-executed plan. One of those things: the blueberry-lemon muffins at Marv’s. The coffee shop, just a block away, held some of the best baked goods on earth in its glass displays, in Cas’s opinion, anyway. He checked his watch. If he left now, he’d have time to read a chapter or two of his current novel before driving into the office.

 

The morning coffee rush was over by the time Cas stepped over Marv’s threshold at 8:52, though a few other patrons sat scattered around the narrow building. Cas ordered his coffee and muffin and sunk into his favorite corner booth, pulling a worn paperback from the inside pocket of his trenchcoat. This was heaven. Cas knew most people thought of Heaven as filled with fluffy-winged angels strumming harps. He snorted and shook his head.  _ Angels _ . Sidereal fantasies for the whimsical and ignorant. Cas preferred to believe in what he could quantify, in the perfection of repetition and order. That’s all he needed to be happy.

 

“Can I get the blackest coffee you have and a slice of the pecan pie?” Cas recognized that voice. He lifted his gaze from the pages in front of him.  

 

Dick Winchester was beautiful. He leaned against the counter, handing cash to the baggy-eyed teenager who rung up the order. His frayed blue jeans covered bowed legs, and a well-worn leather jacket engulfed his broad shoulders. Just from his profile, Cas knew that was a face nearly everyone would find aesthetically pleasing. He could have made a fortune modeling for Renaissance sculptors and painters. Dick Winchester looked over and caught Cas staring at him. He ran his fingers through short-cropped blonde hair, lifting the corners of his lips in a small smile. 

 

He knew it was inappropriate, but Cas didn’t stop staring. That face was more symmetrical and evenly balanced than any Cas had ever seen on a living human. It was captivating. Dick Winchester’s expression morphed from congenial to confused, and with a shrug he accepted his coffee and pie from the server and sauntered straight over to Cas’s table. 

 

“You should take a picture, dude, or your eyes are gonna dry out.” He walked by and sat at a nearby table. 

 

Cas wet his lips and went back to his novel. Or, he tried to. The perfectly proportioned man a few tables away pulled out a cellphone and started chatting. Not loudly enough to be obnoxious, but in the nearly empty cafe, Cas couldn’t help but overhear. 

 

“No, Sam, I haven’t heard from him, but you know how dad gets. I’m sure he’s fine.” Family troubles? Cas wondered. Perhaps Dick’s many courtships were born of a need for distraction rather than simple lust. 

 

“I thought you didn’t care. That’s what you said before you ran out on us, then told me to get lost when I followed you.” Cas recognized the sting of a fresh hurt in Dick’s voice.

 

“No, you’re not. Look, man, I’m not mad anymore. You knew what you wanted and you went after it. I never had the guts to do that, but that’s on me, not you.” Not the level of self-confidence Cas would have expected from a proven ladies man. 

 

“Oh go hug a tree, Dr. Phil.” Cas snorted quietly at Dick’s scathing sarcasm. 

 

Not quietly enough. Dick turned in his seat and glared. His jaw muscles pulsed as he spoke into the phone again, holding Cas still with his angry stare. “I’m in Junction City, if you ever want to look me up. Good luck at school.” A pause, a sigh, then “Yeah, you too, Sammy.” He hung up, rose from his chair, and advanced on Cas. 

 

“I hope that was entertaining for you, asshole,” he growled.

 

Cas lowered his eyes. “I’m so sorry for eavesdropping on your conversation,” he apologized. “I truly meant no offense.” He lifted his eyes to Dick’s fierce green stare. “I hope everything works out with your father.”

 

Dick’s face softened slightly. “Thanks.” He huffed. “Christ, you’re good at apologizing. If I had half your ‘sorry’ game my brother probably wouldn’t hang up on me so much.”

 

Cas offered a self-deprecating smile. “I’ve had a lot of practice placating those I’ve unintentionally insulted.”

 

Dick arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

Cas rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not very good at social interaction.”

 

Dick outright laughed. “Well, you’re not wrong.” He studied Cas for a moment. “Man, I’m not trying to be cliche or anything, but you look really familiar. Have we met?”

 

It was Cas’s turn to chuckle. “You moved into the apartment above me two weeks ago.”

 

Dick’s mouth fell open, then curved into an incredulous grin. “No kidding? Well shit. Howdy there, neighbor?” He tipped an invisible hat and offered his hand. “I’m Dean Winchester.”

 

_ Dean _ . It suits him, Cas thought. He reached out and shook the proffered hand. “Cas Novak. Nice to meet you.”

 

Dean pulled his hand back, but didn’t walk away. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, scuffing a boot against the tile floor and jabbing his hands into his pockets. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, almost shyly.

 

Cas blinked. He never entertained company at Marv’s. This was his scheduled reading time. Dean took his silence for rejection. He started backing away, mumbling something about being sorry for intruding. 

 

“You’re welcome to join me, Dean.” Cas clutched his mug. Until the words left his mouth he wasn’t certain he’d be able to say them around the lump of anxiety in his throat. 

 

Dean’s smiled lit the room far more than the weak autumn rays of sun. “Sounds good. Lemme just grab my stuff.” He snatched his pie and coffee and slid into the chair across from Cas. “This place makes the best damn pecan pie on the planet.”

 

Cas smiled and pointed at his own pastry. “I feel the same way about their blueberry-lemon muffins.” 

 

Dean made a face. “That sounds like a really weird flavor combo, but I’ll take your word for it.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, anything I need to know about the old ‘n rickety on Pinnicky?”

 

“I love that house,” Cas said, a tad offended by Dean’s mocking rhyme. “It has wonderful character.”

 

Dean snorted into his coffee. “‘Character’ is just another word for ‘old and drafty.’”

 

Cas frowned. “As far as I can tell, you’re the first official tennant in the upper unit. I’ve lived on the first floor for three years, but the landlord hasn’t been able to rent out the other apartment until now.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m just glad he kicked out the squatters that were there before you.”

 

“Squatters?” Dean asked.

 

Cas nodded. “About a week before you moved in, there was a very...  _ passionate  _ couple living up there.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck and stared at his pie. Cas sighed. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

 

Dean nodded, blushing from his hairline down to his collar. “How much of that did you hear?” 

 

Cas gave him a look. “You’re very... enthusiastic.” 

 

Dean cringed. “Sorry man. I’m not used to sharing walls with anybody long-term. Growing up in motels didn’t exactly give me good manners.”

 

Cas decided not to ask why Dean had grown up in motels. That line of questioning felt too personal for a first conversation. “We can all get absorbed in our pursuits to relieve tension and find pleasure,” he offered instead. “I know there have been days when my presence bothered other guests here, I was so focused on my reading.”

 

Dean peeked at Cas through his fingers. “Reading? That’s your ‘way of relieving tension and finding pleasure’?” 

 

Cas didn’t appreciate the finger quotes Dean placed in that sentence, but he nodded. He hesitated, then turned his current book so Dean could read the cover.

 

Dean grinned. “Your go-to usually Harlequin bodice-rippers?”

 

Cas turned the book around and pressed it to his middle. He shouldn’t have confided in Dean. They didn’t know one another. Of course he’d be ridiculed for his odd taste.

 

“Hey man, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Dean placated, reaching across the table. He stopped short of touching Cas, drew his hand back. “I’m just curious why you like them.”

 

Cas chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then leaned forward and let his guard down again. “I love how predictable they are,” he confessed. “I like knowing the main characters will meet, fall in love, and live happily ever after in the end, even if their actions indicate they’re horrible people.”

 

“Huh.” Dean tilted his head. “I can get behind that. I mean, that’s kind of the same reason I watch Dr. Sexy, M.D. whenever I get the chance.” 

 

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Is that a television show?”

 

Dean grinned. “Yep, and it’s utter trash, but I love it because I can always guess what’s going to happen and who’s going to get together.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Plus, the sex is super hot.”

 

Cas grunted. “I don’t watch a lot of television,” he said shortly, hoping Dean would stop talking about sex soon.

 

“Oh.” Dean paused for a moment, thrown off by Cas’s sudden coldness, but rallied quickly. “So, you obviously don’t sleep around like I do,”—Cas frowned at Dean’s casual self-deprecation—“What do you do to, you know, unwind?”

 

No one had ever asked him that before. Cas pondered. “I like organizing things,” he said slowly. “Especially numbers.” That felt true. He pressed on. “I feel most connected to people when I can help them put their finances in order, especially when I know they can’t do it on their own.” He looked up. “I feel that most when I do outreach for the firm.”

 

Dean leaned forward, genuine curiosity on his face. “Outreach for the firm? What’s that mean?”

 

“I’m an accountant at Morningstar and Sons, and every year I take time out of the office to do pro bono tax prep and returns in low-income communities.” He smiled, recalling a few individuals in particular who he’d been able to help. “Sometimes I can get them two or three times the money back they would have gotten filing on their own.” 

 

“Awesome.” Dean grinned. “I should have you do my taxes this year if you don’t hate my guts by then.”

Cas searched Dean’s face. Again, the ugly words disguised as humor had come across as entirely honest. “I’m sure I could never hate you, Dean.” 

 

Dean grinned, or grimaced. “Give it time.” 

 

Cas decided it was time to change the subject again. “Tell me more about this Dr. Sexy you watch.” 

 

Dean brightened, launching into a half-hour dissertation on a show that Cas secretly agreed was, in fact, utter trash. 

 

They ended up talking about nothing of consequence until nearly 1:00, when Dean glanced at his watch and cursed. “I’m supposed to be over at the temp agency right now,” he gripped, then glanced at Cas. “Kinda between jobs at the moment.” 

 

Cas shrugged. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve been there. I need to get back to work, myself. They allow me to set my own office hours, but coming in after one o’clock probably stretches that policy to its limit.” 

 

Dean offered Cas a ride back to the apartment in his baby — phraseology which led to a confused question from Cas followed by a fit of laughter from Dean — but Cas refused. 

 

“I work better here in the afternoons,” he explained. “Plus, I want another muffin. Thank you for the offer, but I’ll have to meet your ‘baby’ another time.” Cas used his fingers to place the grammatically appropriate quotation marks around Dean’s moniker for his vehicle, and Dean laughed so hard he cried. Cas watched in bemused amusement, savoring the feeling of having a friend. 

 

***

**August 26, 2005**

 

Dean wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, hoping Cas would blame Dean’s damp skin on his stupid decision to wear jeans in 98-degree weather. Marv’s had the AC cranked, of course, but Dean could fib and say he’d just arrived. Yeah, that would work. 

 

Dean shook his head. It was a conversation, not brain surgery. Why was he so nervous? Just a conversation between two guys who’d been having coffee together almost every day for a month, plus a few trips to Cas’s favorite local food joints, with lots and lots of intense eye contact and less and less personal space.

 

Dean took a deep breath. He wasn’t misreading this. Cas liked him, he liked Cas. Weird as it seemed, there was something going on between them, Dean could feel it. And, he wanted to clear the air before things got awkward. Or,  _ more  _ awkward, anyway. With Cas, things were always at least a little awkward.

 

The bell over the door chimed, blending with Marv’s typical eclectic background music, and Cas stepped inside. Dean waved.  _ Christ, I’m such a dork _ , Dean chided himself. Cas waved back, a toothy grin on his face, and stepped up to the counter to order. Dean was pretty sure the guy was single-handedly ensuring Marv’s kept baking those ridiculous blueberry-lemon muffins.

 

Dean waited until Cas sat down and took a huge bite of pastry to start talking. “Hey man. How was work this morning?”  _ Oh fabulous start, Winchester. Way to not be weird. _

 

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I suppose. A few of our bigger clients are prepping for year-end already, so I’ve got a few big projects I’m working on. How’s the job-hunt going? Did you apply for the fireman program?”

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I did, actually. I don’t they’ll take me, though. I don’t exactly have a clean track record.”

 

“They’d be stupid to turn you down,” Cas insisted. He placed a hand on Dean’s. “I’m proud of you, Dean. I know how difficult it is to conquer old fears.” 

 

Dean bit his lip, feeling his cheeks heat. Cas’s earnest praise always warmed his core (and therefore his face). Dean wasn’t used to compliments. Cas pulled his hand back and Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks for recommending that burger joint, by the way. I swung by for dinner the other day and it was fantastic!”

 

Cas smiled. “I’m glad you liked it. It’s my favorite place to go for a casual dinner.”

 

“I can see why.” Dean swallowed the lump of sawdust in his throat. “We should go there sometime. But not like, you know... together.” 

 

Cas’s brow furrowed. “How would we go, but not together?” He looked down. “Do you mean, not with me? We should go separately?”

 

Dean shook his head. Cas wasn’t getting it. “No, Cas, I want to hang out with you. I just... I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

 

“What idea would that be?”

 

Dean floundered, his face stinging. “That I... That we...” He swallowed a scalding mouthful of coffee and rasped, “I’m not gay.” 

 

Cas sat back in his chair, staring. Dean couldn’t decipher his expression. What he disappointed? Angry? Would Cas just get up and leave?

 

A slow smile dawned on Cas’s face, punctuated by a soft chuckle. “I didn’t assume you were, Dean.”

 

“Good.” Dean sighed in in relief, smiling back. “I just... I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

 

Cas tilted his head. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had,” he declared, bluntly honest. Dean didn’t know how to respond to that. Cas lowered his eyes and shrugged. “But I haven’t had very many, so I don’t have much to compare it to.”

 

His friend’s cavalier attitude toward a life as solitary as his own, probably more so, twinged something deep inside Dean’s chest. “That sucks, man.” He nudged Cas’s ankle with his boot. “I won’t let you ever be lonely again,” he vowed. “I know how much it blows.”

 

Cas smiled at him over the rim of his coffee mug. “Thank you, Dean, but please don’t make that promise.” Dean frowned, and Cas elaborated. “I’ll value your company as long as you choose to give it,  _ because  _ you choose to give it. I don’t want to you feel obligated.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Screw that. I keep my promises, because I only give ‘em when I mean ‘em. I’m not walking away.” 

 

Dean could have sworn the earth shifted on its axis at his words. It felt significant. More important than a simple promise between friends should have. The declaration sat heavily between them. 

 

Dean cleared his throat. “So, did you see last night’s  _ Dr. Sexy _ ? Dr. Piccolo and Dr. Sexy got in a fight and then he and Dr. Wang finally got it on and it was  _ hot _ .”

 

Cas grunted. “I’ve never understood the appeal of sex, especially someone else having sex. Can we talk about something else?”

 

Dean was gobsmacked. “Wait, what?” He reached out a hand, brushing Cas’s arm. “No judgement, man. I’m just confused. You don’t like sex? Or, like you’ve never had sex?”

 

Fidgeting, Cas sipped at his coffee before speaking. “I’m not a virgin, but I’ve never really enjoyed myself during sex. It feels good, sometimes, but it doesn’t satisfy me emotionally at all. I’m not repulsed by the idea of it, but I don’t like being constantly reminded that I’m a freak.”

 

Dean dipped his head, waiting until Cas met his open gaze. “You’re not a freak, Cas. You’re just different. That’s not always a bad thing.”

 

Cas looked at him skeptically. 

 

“I’m serious!” Dean insisted. “I mean, shit. Think of how much farther along we’d be as a species if we could all keep it in our pants!” 

 

Cas rolled his eyes, and the tension broke. 

 

Dean wrapped both hands around his mug. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we. A real regular Odd Couple.”

 

Cas smiled. “That we are.”

 

***

 

**November 16, 2005**

 

“Dude! I still can’t believe you got us kicked out of the concert last night,” Dean laughed as he stepped into Marv’s, Cas on his heels. 

 

“That security officer misread the situation,” Cas argued. “I was not the instigator of the fight.”

 

Dean chuckled. “Maybe not, but you’d have gotten your hide tanned if I hadn’t stepped in.” He shook his head. “That guy was twice your size man. What were you thinking?”

 

“He shouldn’t have called you that,” Cas muttered, peering through the glass display in search of his lemon-blueberry muffins. 

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s not the first time someone’s called me a fag, Cas. It’s my stupid face. People just assume... But I can handle it.” He tossed a quick “the usual” to the kid behind the counter and turned back to Cas. “You didn’t have to defend me.”

 

Cas’s blue eyes locked with his. “Maybe not, but I wanted to.” He’d never wanted to protect someone else so fiercely before. The intensity of the emotion scared him a bit, in retrospect. In just a few short months, simple camaraderie had transformed into an immutable affection for Dean, a love Cas could neither classify nor ignore.

 

Dean ducked his head, cheeks heating. “I never know what to say when you get all intense like that,” he muttered. 

 

Cas shrugged. “You don’t have to say anything.”

 

“Now you sound like a chick-flick.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Next time you defend my honor, remember to use the full nelson so you don’t get your ass kicked. That black eye looks terrible.”

 

Cas gingerly touched two fingers to his left eye, wincing. “What’s a full nelson?”

 

Dean shook his head. “It’s a wrestling move, illegal in most matches. I used to watch a lot of that crap when I was a kid.” He jabbed Cas’s shoulder playfully. “I promise I’ll show you how to do it sometime.”

 

They collected their drinks — sadly, no muffin today — and settled in at their usual table, sipping up the much-needed caffeine in companionable silence. 

 

Out of the blue, Dean shook his head and chuckled again. 

 

“What?” Cas asked.

 

“I don’t know, man,” Dean shrugged. “I just never woulda guessed that between the two of us you’d be the one with a bigger problem with authority. We wouldn’t have gotten kicked out if you hadn’t mouthed off to the security guard.”

 

Cas pursed his lips. “I don’t respect authority that hasn’t been earned,” he clarified. The differentiation felt important. “You, on the other hand, have quite the... ‘attitude,’ as they say.” 

 

Dean gave him a cocky grin. “Bad boy in town, that’s me all over.” His face softened. “You know most of that’s bullshit though, right?” 

 

Cas dipped his head. Yes. He knew much of Dean’s roguishness was a facade, but he hadn’t been sure until this moment that  _ Dean _ knew.

 

Marv’s music genre of the day — klezmer, Cas thought — filled the silence between them for a moment. Dean opened his mouth, but a chime from his cell phone brought him up short. He swallowed, digging the phone out of his jacket pocket, wide eyes meeting Cas’s gaze.

 

Cas gestured at Dean to answer. He was expecting a call with the results from his last exam with the station. 

 

Fingers shaking slightly, Dean tapped a button and brought the phone to his ear. “This is Dean Winchester.” 

 

“Yeah.” Dean bit his lip.

 

“I understand.” His free hand clutched the edge of the table. 

 

“Yessir.” 

 

Dean hung up, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

 

“Well?” Cas begged. 

 

“I got in,” Dean marvelled, as though he’d said “Unicorns are real” instead. He met Cas’s eager gaze, green eye shining. “I fucking got in!”

 

Cas smiled, reaching across to wrap a hand around Dean’s wrist. “I knew it!” he exulted. “I told you you’d make it. Congratulations, Dean.”

 

Laughing, Dean shoved his phone away. “I start my first shift next Monday, which means I’ll get my first paycheck in time to get you a decent Christmas present.”

 

Cas paused. “You’re getting me a Christmas present?”

 

Dean looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Duh. Why wouldn’t I?”

 

Cas shook his head, a small smile sneaking onto his face. “I haven’t celebrated the holidays since I’ve been on my own. I completely forgot they were coming up.”

 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Dude, the decorations have been on sale  _ everywhere  _ for literally two months.”

 

Cas shrugged.

 

Dean cocked his head. “Since you’re out of practice celebrating and Sammy still isn’t talking to me—” he hid the hurt at that well, but Cas could hear it in his voice (he’d gotten very good at understanding what Dean didn’t say) “We should celebrate together.”

 

Cas smiled again. “I’d like that.”

 

***

 

**March 29, 2006**

 

“So I told him if he itemizes on the state return and claims his wife as a dependent — since her earnings are well under the federal threshold — he’ll get almost $3,500 back.” Cas sipped his coffee, eyes distant at the memory. “He actually cried.” 

 

“Wow. That’s awesome, man.” Dean didn’t understand the pride he felt at Cas’s work (he certainly hadn’t had anything to do with it), but the feeling was there all the same. 

 

Cas made a face. “Then he hugged me. Enthusiastically.” 

 

Dean guffawed. Cas glowered at him, taking a vicious bite of his lemon-blueberry muffin. 

 

“Sorry.” Dean wasn’t. “That’s the highlight of my day.” 

 

Cas rolled his eyes. “Did you call Sam?”

 

Dean nodded, suddenly solemn. Typical Cas, deflecting teasing with  _ feelings _ . 

 

“Well?” Cas raised his eyebrows. “How did it go?”

 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, massaging away some of the tension. “It could have gone worse, I guess. He’s not ‘ready to have me back in his life,’ apparently, but he didn’t hang up on me, either.” 

 

Cas frowned. “That all sounds very positive. What’s bothering you?”

 

Of course Cas saw through his bullshit. Dean shrugged. 

 

Cas waited, patient as a rock. 

 

Dean sighed, surrendering. “Sam just said something at the end that got to me, is all. Something about wanting to make his own family.” 

 

Cas nodded. “And you think that means he doesn’t want you around anymore.”

 

Dean shrugged again. 

 

Cas reached across the table and took his hands. “Dean, listen to me. I know a thing or two about messed up families.” 

 

Dean met Cas’s eyes. If he ever met one of Cas’s dick brothers... Well, Dean’d probably end up in prison. 

 

Cas squeezed his hands to bring Dean’s attention back. “Your and Sam’s childhoods were not perfect, but you always had each other. If Sam is rebuilding his family on his own terms, do you really think he’ll leave you out of it?” 

 

Dean bit his lip. He  _ hoped _ , but...

 

Cas smacked him on the side of the head. 

 

“Ow!” Dean jerked away, rubbing his temple. “The fuck, Cas?”

 

“You dumbass. Of course Sam wants you in his family. He just wants to build the other pieces, first.” Cas wagged a finger. “And you need to respect that.”

 

Dean made a face. “Christ. Remind me never to piss you off.”

 

“Never piss me off.”

 

A smile crept onto Dean’s face, despite his best efforts.

 

“Did Sam say anything else? It’s been months since you talked.”

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He met some girl named Jess, and the dork is head-over-heels. They’re not dating yet. I don’t think it’s even on Sam’s radar, actually, but she’s got him wrapped around her finger.”

 

Cas smiled. “That’s nice.”

 

“And he was pretty impressed I’m a fireman now, too,” Dean bragged. It was a nice feeling, knowing his brother was proud of him.

 

“That’s because he hasn’t had to deal with you using your training to insult his home,” Cas pointed out.

 

“Not that again,” Dean scoffed. “You loving it isn’t gonna stop that old house from burning to the ground one day, wait and see.”

 

“Why would you say that?” Cas argued. “It’s perfectly safe.”

 

Dean chuckled. “Sure, if you call a bunch of dry tinder held together with flammable insulation ‘safe.’”

 

**October 15, 2006**

 

“The girl’s parents called from the hospital earlier today. She’s being discharged this afternoon, and is begging to play in her soccer game tomorrow.” Dean finished his story, sipping at his coffee for the first time in several minutes. “Crap, this got cold.” He made a face. “Gross. I’m gonna go get a warm-up. Be right back.”

 

Cas tracked Dean’s progress through the maze of tables up to the counter, marvelling at his nonchalance. Yesterday, Dean had pulled an eight-year-old girl from the back seat of a burning car. Her mother had swerved to avoid another vehicle as it ran a red light. The sedan crashed into a telephone pole, and some internal fluid caught fire. The mother was able to jump out, but the back door was damaged, trapping the girl inside. Dean happened to be driving by, pulled over, and saved the girl’s life. 

 

And he thought nothing of it.

 

Cas envied his friend’s blasé heroism, and told him so as Dean settled back into his seat, steaming mug in hand.

 

Dean scrunched up his face and shook his head. “I was just doing my job. Nothing special about that.”

 

Cas leaned in, trying to make him understand. “You weren’t on duty. You weren’t just doing a job. It’s a part of who you are. You see a problem, and you fix it.”

 

Dean held up a finger. “No, I’m a trouble-magnet. Big difference.” Cas waited as Dean sipped his coffee, clearly searching for words. “Bad shit just happens around me, constantly. I’ve gotten pretty good at dealing with it.”

 

“Maybe so,” Cas conceded, looking away. “But I still wish I could feel like the hero of my own story, not a background character, if only for a moment or two.”

 

“Hey.” Dean waited until Cas locked eyes with him. “You’re nobody’s sidekick. Maybe the exciting part of your story just hasn’t happened yet.”

 

Dean’s heartfelt reassurance brought a smile to Cas’s face, though he doubted its accuracy. “Thank you, Dean, but I don’t have any remarkable qualities, and I’m okay with that.”

 

“Bullshit. No you’re not,” Dean retorted. “And you do  _ so _ have ‘remarkable qualities.’ You’ve got the patience of a freaking saint — I mean, you put up with my antics for Christs’ sake — and you support other people, but aren’t a doormat. I wish I could find that balance.”

 

He was talking about his relationship with Sam, Cas guessed. Lately, Dean had been trying harder to let Sam grow on his own, and it was difficult for him. 

 

“Maybe that’s why we get along so well,” Cas mused. “You’re the hero I want to be, and I’m the angel you wish you were.”

 

“Huh.” Dean turned his lips down in a quick sturgeon-face. “You might be onto something, there.” 

 

***

 

**February 14, 2007**

 

Marv’s was decked out in pink and red, covered in hearts for Valentine’s Day. Dean blinked. Yep. Still there.

 

Shaking his head at the garish decorations, he ordered his usual dark roast and headed over to meet Cas, who was already waiting at their table. 

 

“Ah, the season of love,” Dean mocked as he plopped into his chair. 

 

“I think it looks festive,” Cas argued.

 

Dean blinked. “Really?”

 

Cas rolled his eyes. “No, it’s horrific,” he said in his  _ you’re an idiot _ voice. “But I’m glad we’re celebrating together tonight, anyway.”

 

Dean smiled. “Yeah, me too. Great excuse to get out of the apartment and have a nice dinner, even if every couple in town is gonna be out, too. But there’s gonna be  _ so much  _ chocolate.” Distracted by the thought of chocolate-filled chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, Dean missed Cas’s expression fall.

 

Cas cleared his throat. “So, I haven’t noticed you having any company over lately. I appreciate your discretion.” 

 

“Huh?” Dean never had company, and why would Cas... oh. “Oh, right.” Dean huffed. “I haven’t really had occasion lately, you know. With work and stuff.”

 

Cas leveled him with one of his stares that made Dean feel like the dude could see into his soul. He swallowed, not sure if saying this next bit out loud would ruin anything. “Besides,” Dean confessed softly, “hanging out with you all the time, I don’t feel so disconnected. I don’t need to hook up all the time anymore. You fill that hole.” Dean heard himself and balked. “That came out wrong,” he rushed, eyes wide.

 

Cas grinned. “Don’t panic, Dean. You’re not going to scare me off.” 

 

Dean sipped at his coffee. Bit his lip. “But I’m not crazy, right?” he ventured. “There’s something going on here? Something more than just friendship?”

 

Cas frowned. “How do you mean?”

 

Dean leaned forward. “I’ve never gone for a guy before, but you’re not bad looking, and... I don’t know. This—” he gestured between them with his free hand “—just feels like  _ more _ .”

 

Heavy silence hung between them, and for once it was agonizingly awkward.

 

Cas rubbed the back of neck with one hand, avoiding Dean’s increasingly desperate eyes. After an eternity, he answered. “I don’t really have anything to compare it to, either, but I don’t know what you’re asking me to do. Do you want me to...” he paused, examining the ceiling.

 

Dean let him process, praying he hadn’t royally fucked up the one good, solid relationship in his life with his lack of brain-to-mouth filter.

 

“If you want more...” Cas began, picking at his fingernails. “If the friendship we have isn’t everything that you need...” Cas met Dean’s gaze. “Dean, I’m not attracted to you, but I’m willing to pretend if you need me to.”

 

Dean recoiled. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He imagined Cas, with him, them together... Dean’s stomach turned. 

 

“No way, Cas,” he declared. “I don’t want that. I will never want you to be anything but what you are.” 

 

“Then what are you asking?” Cas begged, frustrated.

 

“I’m asking if you’ve ever loved anybody like this before, the way I love you.” Dean physically stopped his mouth from moving with one hand. This was it. He’d used the L-word. Any second now, Cas was going to get up and leave and never speak to Dean again. Dean closed his eyes, bracing himself.

 

“You love me?” 

 

Dean’s eyes snapped open. Cas was staring into his soul again, but not in a disgusted way. More... hopeful.

 

“Um... Yeah?” Dean cleared his throat, shook himself.  _ Man up, Winchester _ . “I mean yes. Yes, I do. Not the same way I love my brother, or my dad loved my mom, but someway just as important.” He wet his lips, met Cas’s gaze, and tried out the words again. “I love you, Cas.”

 

Cas’s smile sparkled more than all the glittery hearts plastered to Marv’s walls put together. “I love you too, Dean.”

 

***

 

**June 12, 2007**

 

“Look at my face though. I look like I’m trying to poop!” Dean lamented, burying his face in his arms. “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 

Cas reached across their table and reassured Dean with a pat on the shoulder. “I think it’s a very flattering photo, Dean. The pose certainly shows off your physique.”

 

“That’s because I’m not wearing a shirt!” Dean exclaimed, sitting up and running both hands through his hair. “Why did I think this would be a good idea?”

 

“Because this calendar raises money for charity, and you would have been the only member of the fire department not to participate,” Cas explained. 

 

“Still, they could have let me kept my jacket on,” Dean complained. “Chief Turner got to.”

 

Cas raised an eyebrow, leafing through the 2007-08 school-year calendar the Junction City Fire Department sold every year. “The chief is almost sixty and no longer in a physically demanding position. I doubt anyone would pay money to see him without a shirt on.”

 

Dean made a face. “Now that image is burned into my brain. Ugh.”

 

Cas flipped back to Dean’s photo (January). “You have nothing to worry about, Dean. You look very handsome in this picture.”

 

“How would you know? You’re ace!” Dean retorted. 

 

“Yes, but I’m not blind.”

 

They stared at one another over the calendar, then burst out laughing. 

 

***

 

**January 24, 2008**

 

“Happy birthday, Dean.” Dean accepted the long, narrow box Cas held out to him. “I was going to give it to you later tonight, but I may have to work late, so...”

 

“You didn’t have to get me anything, man,” Dean assured him, already tearing into the newspaper wrapping. Cas always wrapped his gifts with the comics section. Genius. 

 

The torn paper revealed a plain black box. Dean undid the clasp holding the top closed and lifted the package open. 

 

“Holy shit,” he breathed, blinking at the bottle of 25-year Laphroaig. “Cas, I can’t accept this!”

 

“You can, and you will,” Cas commanded. “I received a generous end-of-year bonus last month, and you’ve spoken several times about how much you enjoy this particular brand. The liquor salesman assured me this particular vintage is of exceptional quality.”

 

“Wow.” Dean swallowed. “I think this is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten. Thank you. Really.”

 

Cas smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

 

“I’m dying to taste it, but I think we should save it for a special occasion. Open it together.”

 

“What would we save it for?” Cas asked.

 

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Something more momentous than me turning another year older. Maybe a big work promotion for you or something?”

 

Cas smiled at him fondly. “It’s your whiskey. You get to decide when you drink it, and with whom.”

  
“It’s settled then.” Dean packed the bottle away. “We’ll enjoy it together when we have something big to celebrate. I have a feeling something awesome’ll happen soon.”


	4. Chapter 3

Dean tossed his Dad’s journal on his bunk and rubbed his eyes, groaning. He’d been reading the damn thing since his shift started ten hours ago — minus two hours out on a simple oven fire call — and he still couldn’t figure out if it had any relation to reality. He still hoped to find some sort of clue as to who these “demons” were who’d been after his dad, and likely killed him, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell the numbers and letters at the bottom of John’s message meant. They weren’t coordinates, a phone number, weird foreign address, or anything else Dean had Googled on his phone, and Cas didn’t have any ideas, either. 

 

He also hadn’t heard from Sam. Dean didn’t want to make all the decisions about Dad’s burial on his own, but Sammy’d been MIA since Saturday morning. Dean chewed on his bottom lip. It was technically against policy to make personal calls (of a non-emergency nature) while on-duty, but Hendricksen and the two other fighters sharing this shift were all in the common area playing cards. He chanced it and dialled Sam. 

 

Six rings and voicemail.  _ Hey, it’s Sam. Leave a message or text me. _

 

Such a lame voicemail. Dean’s “you know what to do” was way cooler. Dean cleared his throat. “Heya Sammy. Um, it’s Dean. You know, the brother you haven’t called back yet. So, we’ve got some planning to do, decisions to make about Dad’s... you know, funeral.” Dean cringed at his own awkwardness. He hated leaving voicemails. “We don’t have forever with this,so... Don’t make me make all the decisions myself, man. Okay. Call me. Bye.”

 

Dean hung up and sighed, then banged his head against the wall. He rested there for a second, just breathing. Sammy was fine. He was just super busy, what with law school and everything. Sammy was fine. 

 

“Hey Winchester!” 

 

Dean jerked around to see Fred leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “Hey, Lehne.” 

 

Dean could count on one hand the number of words Fred spoke to him during their shifts together, but he didn’t hold it against the guy. Dean was basically hired to replace Fred’s good buddy, who’d had a stroke and been forced to retire. 

 

Fred strode into the bunk room. “So, are you going to join us or what? What are you even doing in here?”

 

Dean shrugged. Fred’s eyes shifted to the journal lying on the bed. He gestured with his chin. “Whatcha got there?”

 

It wasn’t really worth it to lie. “A journal. My dad’s actually. He passed away last week.”

 

Fred’s face twitched. “Sorry to hear that, kid. He write about you?”

 

Dean shook his head ruefully. “Nah. Just about how to find and fight monsters.” 

 

Fred lifted an eyebrow. 

 

“He was undiagnosed schizophrenic, I think,” Dean explained. “Never could get him to get help. He thought it was his job to fight and kill all sorts of crazy shit. Ghosts, vampires, demons, you name it.”

 

Fred grinned. “Demons, huh? He say how to kill those? I could use the info for the next time my mother-in-law visits.”

 

Dean huffed. “Sorry man. According to my old man, the only way to kill a demon is by shooting it with some cowboy’s special gun. You’re shit outta luck.”

 

“Interesting,” Fred murmured. Dean shot him a confused look. “Let me know if you get your hands on that gun, kid. I have a buddy who collects old firearms and might be willing to pay you a pretty penny if it’s in good condition.”

 

Wouldn’t  _ that _ be nice, Dean thought. Even going with the barest of bare bones for the funeral, Dad’s death was putting quite a dent in Dean’s finances. He nodded at Fred. “I’ll call you first if it turns up somewhere.” 

 

Fred smiled, but it felt cold. A shiver ran up Dean’s spine, but he brushed it off as a remnant of his earlier bad mood and worrying over Sam. He pushed himself off the bunk and snapped the journal closed, then tossed it into his locker, slammed the door, and spun the lock. “How about you guys deal me into that card game you’ve got going?” 

 

He might not be able to afford the best coffin and cemetery plot, but he could sure as hell honor his dad’s memory by card sharking his coworkers and boss. 

 

***

 

“You can do it, Sam. Concentrate!” Ruby’s coaching echoed off the cinderblock walls and cement floor of the empty warehouse doubling as their training facility. 

 

Sam grunted, spreading the fingers on his extended right hand, pushing out through them. He could  _ feel _ the demon, but it was like trying to grab a stick of butter with oily hands. He needed to dig in somehow. Exhausted, Sam let his arm drop, chest heaving as sweat cooled on his forehead.

 

The demon coughed, laughing. “Looks like somebody’s having performance issues,” it taunted. 

 

Sam grit his teeth, glaring. The demon sneered back. It’s eye twitched. 

 

_ It’s scared _ , Sam realized. He raised his arm, reached, and grasped its fear. 

 

“You’ve got him,” Ruby instructed. “Now pull!”

 

Sam clenched his fist and wrenched with all his might. It felt like trying to lift a car. His whole body tensed with the strain. The demon resisted, clinging inside its host. 

 

Vision blurring, Sam pressed a hand to his splitting skull, felt warm liquid drip out of his nose. The demon cried out, puffs of black smoke escaping its gaping mouth. 

 

With a bellow of effort, Sam twisted his wrist, and the demon poured out. Its smoky form sunk into the earth, scorching the ground it touched. 

 

Gasping as though he’d sprinted a marathon, Sam collapsed to his knees. Ruby rushed over, but Sam gestured for her to check on the unconscious, demon-free man tied to the chair inside their devil’s trap. 

 

“You saved him, Sam,” Ruby confirmed, a half-smile visible behind the dark waves of her hair. “Getting better all the time.” 

 

Sam closed his eyes in relief, wiping away the blood dripping down his face. His first “successful” exorcism, the host hadn’t survived. Ruby told him the girl had probably been dead for weeks, but Sam still blamed himself. But this... This felt good. It felt like winning.

 

“I wish I could tell Dean about this,” he confessed as Ruby unbound the victim. “He’d be proud.”

 

Ruby shrugged one shoulder. “Well, maybe you  _ should _ tell him. He is your brother.”

 

Sam shook his head. “He wouldn’t believe me, and I don’t want to drag him into this.”

 

Ruby nodded, turning back to her first aid. 

 

Sam wet his lips. “Ruby, I need more.” He’d be on his ass for hours without the boost.

 

She slid a hand into her jacket pocket, retrieving a flash filled with her bloody concoction. “You sure? We just upped your dosage a few days ago.”

 

He nodded. “I can handle it. I need to be stronger for next time.” 

 

She tossed him the flask and Sam drank like a man dying of thirst.

 

Ruby slung the victim’s limp arm over her shoulders, easily taking his weight onto her small frame. “C’mon,” she said softly, as close to comforting as she ever got. “Let’s get this guy to the ER.” 

 

As Sam struggled to his feet, Ruby turned away and headed toward the exit, gentle smile twisting into a vile, triumphant smirk.

 

Across the warehouse, Jessica Moore ducked back beneath the open window, climbed off the crate she was perched on, and jogged back toward her car, an intricately carved silver bracelet jangling on her left wrist. She slid behind the wheel of her blue Prius and took a deep, steadying breath. “Sam, what have you gotten yourself into?”

 

***

 

Gordon Walker was almost as good at Dean at cards.  _ Almost _ . Grinning and pulling his winnings ($5.00 in quarters and nickels) across the table, Dean shot Gordon a look. “Where’d you learn to play like that, man?”

 

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “You really expect me to spill my life story to you now, after two years of dodging questions?”

 

Dean raised his palms in surrender. “Just curious. My dad taught me so I could earn pocket money when he was out of town  _ on work _ —” Dean almost choked on the Winchester family euphemism for ‘hunting imaginary monsters’ — “and I know you gotta keep practicing those skills.”

 

Gordon nodded. “That you do.” He shuffled the deck. “It takes a certain kind of person to really play poker, same as doing what we do here. What got you into chasing fires?”

 

Dean slid a quarter into to the center of the table to start the pot. “I’ve wanted to be a firefighter since I was four.” He stared at the glinting coin. “Our house burned down on November 2, 1983. My mom didn’t make it out.” He rubbed his nose and cleared his throat. “I’ve been scared of fire ever since that night.” Dean looked up and grinned. “Being the brains of the family, I took ‘facing your fears’ literally and here I am.”

 

Gordon nodded and started dealing. “You’d be surprised how many firefighters out there have had a bad experience that motivates them.” Hendricksen and Fred stilled. Dean froze at the change in atmosphere. Gordon dealt in silence. He placed the final card down, then met Dean’s gaze. “My little sister didn’t make it out, either. Car wreck when she was 16.” 

 

Dean nodded. There wasn’t anything he could say.

 

“Well this just got real depressing,” Fred cut in. 

 

Hendricksen glared at him, then hid his face with his cards. “My story isn’t nearly that exciting, but it’s kept me going for 15 years, so—” The bell cut him off. The four men leapt up from the table, bursting into action.

 

Dean suited up and grabbed his gear, controlling his breathing as adrenaline kicked in. Jo would radio them the scenario once they were in the rig, and it was probably just another out of control barbeque. 

 

The engine sirens screamed as they wheeled out of the station, Lehne at the wheel, Hendricksen on the radio. “Jo, what can you tell us?”

 

“Apartment fire, Lieutenant,” her voice crackled through the speaker. “Got mixed reports of which floor, but it’s high enough you boys are gonna need the ladder for this one.”

 

“Roger that.” Victor shared a look with Dean and Walker, then glanced at Lehne. “Step on it where you can, Fred.”

 

Fred nodded, eyes still on the road streaming beneath the rig’s six wheels. Dean double-checked his gear and watched smoke billow into the sky from the direction they were headed. They turned a corner, the six-storey apartment building came into view, and Dean cursed under his breath. The top two floors blazed, thick black smoke pouring out of windows and cracks in the walls. 

 

As Fred rolled the engine to a stop a close but safe distance away from the structure, the rest of the team unbuckled and grabbed their masks.

 

As Dean stepped out of the rig, Hendricksen put a hand on his shoulder. “I know this is your first big rodeo, kid, but stick to your training, listen to your team, and you’ll be fine.”

 

Dean nodded. “I’m ready.” He’d wanted to do this since he was four years old and a house fire stole his childhood and his mother from him in one fell swoop. He pulled his mask on and followed Lehne into the building to begin their sweep while Walker and Hendricksen started with the hoses.

 

Smoke blanketed everything above the second floor. Dean and Fred worked in tandem, clearing each apartment quickly, ushering out anyone who’d stayed behind. They’d just worked their way up to the fourth floor when the radio crackled with Hendricksen’s voice. “Six is clear. We hosed it down and there’s no one else up there. Check four and five and then get outta there. The building’s getting shaky.”

 

“10-4.” Dean responded, Fred echoing over his own radio. They hurried through the eight apartments on the floor, every door except one left open by fleeing tenants. Dean knocked on the locked door at the end of the hall and heard a muffled yell from inside. He felt the handle, then kicked it open. The entryway was clear, but around the corner in the kitchen an elderly woman lay on her side, an overturned wheelchair beside her. 

 

He knelt beside here. “Hey there, ma’am. What’s your name?”

 

“Millie.”

 

“Hi Millie. I’m Dean, and this is my buddy Fred. We’re going to get you out of here safe and sound, okay?”

 

The frightened woman nodded. “I sure hope you boys are strong, because somebody’s going to have to carry me.”

 

“Don’t you worry about it.” Dean assured her. He waved Fred over. “Get her out of here. I’ll sweep five and follow you out.” 

 

“Forget five,” Fred barked. “Anybody who was up there is dead now. Let’s grab her and get outta here.”

 

“I can’t bail without checking,” Dean insisted, sick at the thought of leaving someone behind. “I’ll be right behind you.”

 

“You better move your ass, Winchester,” Fred said, lifting Millie into his arms. “Hendricksen wasn’t kidding about the structural integrity going to shit.”

 

Dean gave him a thumbs up and hurried back to the stairwell. The door to the hallway was closed, and Dean could hear the roar and crackle beyond. He took a deep breath, shielded himself behind the frame, and yanked the door open.

 

Flames poured out, flaring with the rush of new oxygen. Dean waited a moment for them to die back, then pressed forward, his suit keeping the worst of the heat at bay. He jogged down the long hallway, searching for trapped survivors. The apartment doors on this floor weren’t closed; they’d been burned away. Two units into his search, and Dean knew there was no way anyone had survived this. The fire had trapped everyone on this floor. 

 

Swallowing, he turned back toward the stairwell and radioed down. “Nothing on five. I’m heading out.”

 

“Where’s Lehne?” 

 

“Should be out by you any minute. He carried out a survivor from four.”

 

“Damn it kid, we use the buddy system for a reason!” Hendricksen sounded pissed, even over the staticy radio. 

 

“Roger that. I’ll be down in—”

 

The floor gave way beneath Dean’s feet as he put his weight on the first stair. 

 

“Fuck!” Dean lunged forward, managing to grab hold of the crumbling step in front of him. Two more steps disintegrated as he scrambled forward, trying to gain enough leverage to pull himself out of the widening chasm. 

 

“Winchester!” Hendricksen called, frantic. “What’s your 20?”

 

“Center stairwell on five. The ground’s caving in!” Dean gasped, his throat closing around the words.

 

“Hang in there, Dean. Fred’s on his way.” A tiny corner of Dean’s brain giggled at the literal applicability of Hendricksen’s encouragement while he fought to keep the rest of it from going into panic mode. 

 

The stairwell creaked and moaned. Dean swung his lower half, trying to build enough momentum to lift himself up. Dangling there, he vowed to do more pushups if he made it out of this alive. The metal frame holding him up gave an unholy shriek as it warped from the heat, bucking and tearing itself apart. 

 

The step beneath Dean’s arms crumbled, and he fell. 

 

A vice clamped around his wrist.

 

He slammed into the scalding concrete wall. 

 

Dean looked up. Fred leaned over him, pressed against the side of the stairwell, where the step still held their combined weight. 

 

“You ain’t dying today, kid.” Fred heaved Dean up and onto the step below him, and they ran down the stairs faster than Dean ever thought he’d be able to move carrying 45 pounds of gear. 

 

They jogged away from the building, heading toward the rig where Hendricksen was speaking with Sheriff Mills. Dean turned and faced Fred, stopping before they got within earshot. Dean pulled off his mask and swallowed. 

 

“Thanks for coming back for me, Fred.”

 

Lehne pulled off his own mask. “But...”

 

Dean’s expression must be more revealing than he thought. “But how the hell did you do that? There’s no way you got Millie all the way out and then ran back up five flights of stairs in time to get to me. And how’d you pull me up like that? Nobody’s that strong.”

 

Fred’s upper lip curled. “Maybe you are the brains of the family.” Dean took a step back at the animosity in the other man’s voice. “I saved your life you ungrateful fuck-up, and because you couldn’t have done it you think no one can.”

 

Dean held up his hands. “Sorry. You’re right.” He pulled the glove off his right hand and extended it. “I owe you way more than a beer, so let me know if there’s any way I can repay you.”

 

Fred shook his hand and chuckled. “Deal.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows creased. “What’s so funny?”

 

Still laughing softly, Fred walked toward the rig. “I’ll tell you later, kid.”

 

***

 

“Wow. That’s an intense story,” Cas marveled. Those ridiculous, unfair blue eyes still captivated Dean, an untold number of platonic coffee dates later. 

 

“You think the story is intense, try living it,” Dean quipped, tugging at the tie around his neck. Somehow reliving his near-death experience with Cas was helping him prepare to bury his father in two hours. Alone.

 

“Have you heard from Sam at all?” Cas asked, reading Dean’s mind again. 

 

Dean shook his head. “I’m really getting worried.” He wrapped his hands around his mug. “It’s not like Sammy to ignore my calls for this long. Not when he knows it’s about something important.”

 

Cas reached over and laid a hand on Dean’s arm. “You’re Sam’s emergency contact, right?” Dean nodded. “Then if something had happened, you’d know.” 

 

Dean offered a small smile. “There you go, bringing logic into it.” Cas smiled back, then glanced at his watch. 

 

“We should probably get going.”

 

Dean started. “We?”

 

Cas sighed. “Did you honestly think I’d let my only friend bury his father  _ alone _ ?”

 

God, but that pulled at Dean’s heartstrings. “We’re pretty pathetic, aren’t we?”

 

Cas shrugged. “That probably depends on who you’re comparing us to.”

 

That pulled a full, real smile to Dean’s face. “You’re not wrong.” He left a few bills on the table as a tip and followed Cas out the door. 

 

A cool breeze caressed Dean’s face, and he closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy it, still walking. He bumped into Cas’s back, knocking him forward.

 

Tires screeched. 

 

Time slowed. 

 

Dean opened his eyes to Cas’s unmoving form sprawled in front of the dented grill of a burgundy F-150, stains the same color as the truck spreading on his beige trenchcoat. 

 

“Cas!” 

 

Dean dropped to his knees beside his friend, searching for a pulse, for breath, for any sign of life. 

  
Those unforgettable blue eyes stared up at him, dull and unseeing.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: Whispers on the Wind

Cas slid his palm along the mahogany bannister, the polished wood cool beneath his fingers. He descended the grand staircase, each footfall heavy in the silence. He recalled the bannister rail being taller, the steps longer and higher, but it’d been decades since he descended these stairs, so perhaps he misremembered. 

 

With unmistakeable deep chords, the first movement of [Rachmaninoff’s _Piano Concerto No. 2, Op. 18_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_VCbnqbwwA) crept into the silence. Castiel’s favorite piece. 

 

The dark figure waiting for him on the bottom step turned. Light from the ornate stained glass window behind Cas painted his father’s features green, blue, orange, red. Except for where Cas’s shadow fell across him, Charles Novak’s dark suit was a kaleidoscope of color fit for a carnival.

 

“Why are you leaving, Dad?” The words belonged to Cas, but they didn’t fall from his lips, and his voice had long since deepened. Cas pivoted. His seven-year old self stared through him, down at their departing father. 

 

Charles ascended just enough steps to be eye level with his youngest child. “I don’t expect you to understand, Cas, but I can’t stay here anymore.”

 

“But  _ why _ ? Don’t you like it here?” Cas pleaded, the same hot tears in his grown eyes — eyes that had seen so much more strife — as in his innocent ones. 

 

Charles sighed and took Cas’s small hand in his own. “Son, things aren’t as they should be here. I have to go put some things in order.”

 

So it was his fault. Even as a child, Cas had always felt the crushing weight of responsibility for his father’s abandonment. 

 

“It’s not your fault, Cas.” Dean’s smooth voice spun Cas around. His friend stood on the step above him, reaching out from the place where his younger self had been. “Both our dads were dicks. It was never your fault.” 

 

Cas closed his eyes, sucking his lips under his front teeth. He’d wanted to hear this for so long, wanted  _ Dean _ to somehow be able to say it to him, in this moment. Hearing this truth now, from someone he trusted... Cas knew it would have transformed his life. No more obsessive need for schedule and order, for everything to have its place. No more friends who stopped playing with him, no more teachers who insisted he needed special help, no more medicine to “fix” him. 

 

Cas gasped for breath and opened his eyes. Dean stood beside him, holding him up. 

 

“I wish you’d been here to say that,” he whispered. “I wish I could be the man you’d have helped me be.” He covered his face with one hand and shook his head. “I wish this wasn’t a dream.”

 

The music cut off, right in the middle of a dissonant crescendo. 

 

“It’s not a dream.”

 

Cas dipped his head slightly, not quite looking back at his father. “Says my dead dad.”

 

“I’m not your dad, though I do get called ‘Father’ a lot.”

 

Cas turned at that. The black suit was gone, as was the clean-shaven face and close-cropped brown hair. Cas blinked and tried to wrap his head around the sight of his shaggy-faced dad in a wrinkled white button-down and frayed jeans. 

 

“Like I said, not your dad. I just happen to look like him because that’s what you’ve decided I should look like.”

 

Cas opened his mouth. Closed it again.  _ Could he mean?... No _ . He cleared his throat and tried to outsmart his subconscious. “So who are you then?”

 

A small smile. “Call me Chuck.” He jogged up the stairs and took Cas’s arm, grip surprisingly firm for an apparition. “We’re actually on a bit of a deadline, so I’m gonna help you out here. What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

Cas made a face at the odd question. 

 

“Before being here, on the staircase, what do you remember?” Chuck pressed. 

 

Cas raised an eyebrow. “I was...” What had he been doing before this dream? He remembered getting coffee at Marv’s with Dean. They were getting ready for John Winchester’s funeral. Dean had been surprised he’d attend. They’d left Marv’s and...

 

A push.

 

A truck.

 

_ Pain. _

 

And then...

 

“Did I die?” Cas gasped. “Am I dead?”

 

Chuck nodded, his sheepish expression more appropriate for apologizing for burning dinner than for someone being dead. “Condolences.” Cas was a little offended. 

 

“I don’t understand. This...” He looked around at the ghost of his childhood home. “ _ This _ is Heaven?”

 

“Not the most impressive at first blush, I’ll give you that,” Chuck admitted. “But, it did way better with test audiences than the last model.” He smiled jovially, like that was supposed to make things better.

 

Cas gaped. “Who are you, really?”

 

Chuck stared him down. 

 

Cas fisted his hands in his trenchcoat (had he been wearing it this whole time?) to keep his fingers from trembling. “Okay,” he breathed. “Chuck.” He wet his lips. “I take it faith wasn’t a prerequisite for getting in here?” Or he just damned himself to hell for being an idiot.

 

“Of course not!” Chuck made a face and shook his head. “I have a wrathful side, but I’m not  _ that  _ mean. I wouldn’t make free will part of the package and then punish people for using it.”

 

Some of the weight lifted from Cas’s chest. “So then, why are you here?”

 

The shine of good humor faded from Chuck’s eyes. He stared at Cas meaningfully for a moment, then slowly turned his eyes upward before glancing around conspiratorially. Cas followed his gaze, but saw nothing but the ceiling. 

 

“I came to regretfully inform you it wasn’t your time to die, Cas Novak,” Chuck proclaimed, a little too loudly. “Clerical error upstairs. You can’t imagine the volume we go through, there are bound to be some mistakes, you know.”

 

Cas furrowed his brow. Clearly, Chuck was lying, and for someone else’s benefit. 

 

“Unfortunately, even I can’t undo it.” Chuck hesitated, then corrected himself. “Well, I could, but I’d have to poke holes in the foundations of the universe and that really wouldn’t be a good idea.”

 

Cas swallowed, watching Chuck’s face closely. “I understand,” he said slowly. “Sometimes there’s a spreadsheet error that wrecks the functionality of the whole thing, and there’s no way to fix it without starting over except to delete the cell.”

 

Chuck nodded. “So that leaves you with two options, Cas.” Chuck lifted both hands, palm up. He bobbed his right hand. “You can make like a  Beatle and let it be, stay here and enjoy Heaven. Or...” he bobbed his left. “You can become an angel, and spend your eternity guarding worthy souls, preventing them from suffering the same fate.”

 

Cas gaped. “Surely you must be joking.”

 

Chuck quirked an eyebrow, hands still aloft. 

 

Cas shook his head. “I can’t be an angel! I could barely take care of myself down there, and I’m  _ horrible  _ with people.”

 

“The choice is yours, Cas,” Chuck said, solemn, stoic. 

 

Cas scraped his fingernails across his scalp. He thought of how new social situations made him nervous and how disruptions to his schedule made him anxious. He thought of how much he preferred solitude to interaction with others, except for Dean. Then he thought of Dean, and how he’d dedicated his life so serving,  _ saving _ total strangers. He thought of Dean’s proud smile when Cas told him how much he enjoyed helping the less fortunate in the only way he knew how. He thought of what Dean would do, faced with this same choice. 

 

Cas drew a shaking breath deep into his lungs, let it out slowly. He stepped forward and reached for Chuck’s left hand.

 

“Before you decide, Cas, know this: as a guardian angel, you will be unseen and unheard by all humans, even your charge, until their soul recognizes its own worthiness. Until your charge believes they deserve to be saved, you will be unable to interfere directly.”

 

Unseen, unheard. Familiar territory for a socially awkward recluse like Cas. He took Chuck’s hand. 

 

Chuck’s fingers clasped tight, a reassuring pressure. His beard tickled Cas’s neck when he leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Well chosen. Thinking for yourself is always a good thing, Cas. Remember that. And good luck.” 

 

Before Cas could decipher the meaning behind those cryptic words, Chuck yanked on his arm, pulling him off balance. Cas flailed as he fell, but the stairs dissolved before he hit them. A disorienting and stomach-dropping split second later, Cas stood in a white room with silver filing cabinets along the walls, and a single door.

 

A redhead in a gray pantsuit turned away from an open cabinet near the corner. “Who are you?” she demanded. Cas couldn’t respond, still fighting a strange sensation that wasn’t quite dizziness and wasn’t quite déjà vu, but some combination of the two.

 

A bell rang, and a manilla folder fell through a small hole in the ceiling, slid down a ramp and dropped into a silver wire basket on the large desk positioned near the far wall. The redhead marched over and flipped open the folder. She paged through it briskly, then laid it on the desk beside her. 

 

“You’re my new one, then.” It wasn’t a question, so Cas held his tongue, though he’d regained his equilibrium. The redhead smiled at him. “My name is Anael, but most of our brothers and sisters call me Anna. Welcome to the garrison, Castiel.”

 

***

 

Autumn in southern California usually looked a lot like every other season in southern California, but today’s gray, overcast sky and steady wind reminded Sam of his childhood in the Midwest more than the three years he’s been at Stanford. He buried his hands in his jacket pockets, shielding them from the slight chill as he walked through the empty park, the sunset casting a long shadow before him. 

 

Jess was waiting for him, leaning against the bench they’d spent hours studying together on over the past two and a half years, her long hair loose and twisting in the wind. 

 

“Hey, Sam.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Jess tucked her hair behind her ears and tilted her head toward the bench. “Wanna sit?”

 

Sam shrugged. “Kinda depends on why you wanted to meet.”

 

She nodded, straightened. “That’s fair.” Her eyes roamed over his face, his torso, his legs, before returning to search his eyes. “You look awful.” 

 

Sam snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

 

“Shut up, I’m trying to explain myself, here.”

 

Sam gestured for her to continue. 

 

“Look, I know we’re not together anymore so it’s really none of my business...”

 

“You’re the one who broke up with me,” Sam reminded her.

 

Jess raised her eyebrows. “Only after you stood me up for three straight dates, stopped coming home altogether, and then stopped answering my calls. I just made it official.” She shrugged. “And quit interrupting me.”

 

Sam raised his hands in surrender. 

 

Jess crossed her arms over her chest. “I wanted to talk, because I’m worried about you, Sam.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I’m fine, Jess.” 

 

“I really don’t think you are.”

 

He wished she wouldn’t make this so difficult. Once, not that long ago, a long life with Jess had been everything Sam dreamed of... But that was before he knew what was lurking out there in the dark, and that he could stop it. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, turning to go.

 

“Then explain it to me!” Jess begged, stopping him with a hand on his arm.

 

Sam shrugged her off. “I can’t.”

 

Jess moved to block his way. “Sam, I know what it’s like to need to keep secrets from someone you love. I know how easy it is to convince yourself you’re doing the right thing by hiding things from them. I’m telling you, you don’t need to keep things from me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

 

Sam swallowed. Closed his eyes, bottled his emotions. His forced his face to hide any conflict as he met Jess’s shining blue eyes, and said goodbye. 

 

“Stay away from me, Jess. I don’t want you around anymore.”

 

She didn’t stop him walking away, this time.

 

***

 

“Welcome to the garrison, Castiel.”

 

The name rocked Cas back on his heels.  _ Castiel _ . That was him. He knew it in the core of his being, just as he knew he was a 35-year old accountant named Cas James Novak. 

 

Anna stepped forward. “What are you, Castiel?”

 

“I’m an Angel of the Lord.” The response came by rote, passing straight from some deep, warm place inside him ( _ grace _ , it informed him) and out through his lips without filtering through his brain. 

 

Anna stepped forward again. “What is your purpose?”

 

“I am an agent of celestial intent. I execute the will of Heaven.” Cas felt like someone had replaced part of his brain with a computer algorithm, generating outputs in response to external inputs. 

 

Anna brought them toe-to-toe, faces separated by only a few inches (5.7398 inches, his new brain supplied). “Who am I?” she prompted.

 

“You’re my superior. I obey your command, as you obey the orders handed down to you through revelation.”

 

Anna nodded and stepped back. With room to breathe again, Cas pressed a hand to his temple. Anna placed one of her own over it. “What you’re feeling? That’s called intrinsic knowledge. It won’t always be this intense, but it will guide you.” 

 

Finding his grip on himself again, Cas rested his arms at his sides. “So you won’t be training me before I’m sent into the field?” The military terms seemed natural, though Cas knew he’d never spoken like this in his life. 

 

Anna nodded. “Angels have no need for training or education of any kind,” she said, expression suggesting such things were a waste of time. “When you need to know something, or how to do something, you’ll simply know it.”

 

Cas nodded, then tilted his head to the side, pondering. “What sorts of things will I need to know how to do?” Visions of strumming a harp flitted through his mind. 

 

Anna spread her arms. “Teleportation, seeing into human minds and hearts, maybe even fighting. It changes.” She offered a reassuring smile. “You’ll be able to do whatever is required of you.”

 

Once, the lack of specific direction would have triggered massive anxiety, but Cas felt no fear. 

 

His unexpected confidence must have shown, because Anna’s eyelids flicked as she gave him a quick once-over. “Just because you  _ can  _ doesn’t mean you  _ should _ do everything that comes to you, Castiel.”

 

His brow furrowed. “What should I avoid doing?” he asked. “It sounds like you have something specific in mind.”

 

“Time travel.”

 

Cas gaped. “I can travel through time now?” Given Anna’s serious expression, Cas fought to keep his excitement from his features. He could see the pyramids being built, or the famed gardens of Babylon, or even dinosaurs! 

 

Anna sighed. “Time is fluid,” she explained. “It’s not easy, but we can bend it on occasion. But there are  _ always _ consequences.”

 

Cas frowned. “What kind of consequences?”

 

“The cosmic kind,” Anna snapped. She bottled her frustration and continued. “Humans are less sensitive to the sensation than angels, but they speak of feeling as though time crawls, or flies by.” Cas nodded, familiar with the experience. “They aren’t imagining it. That happens when the universe recalibrates itself after something manipulates Time.” Her voice turned stern. “Don’t do it unless you’re specifically ordered to, because I’m the one who’ll have to clean up after you if you screw it up. The last time one of my subordinates broke this rule it took me three millennia to untangle everything.”

 

_ Three millennia _ . Cas gulped. “No time travelling. Understood.” He pressed his fingers against his eyes to relieve the strain. “No offense, but your onboarding process could use some revising. ‘Throw ‘em in and hope they float’ isn’t the best method. The  _ Harvard Business Review  _ has some great models if you don’t want to reinvent the wheel.”

 

Anna stilled. “Castiel, are you alright?”

 

Cas shrugged. “A little overwhelmed, I suppose. It’s hard to adjust. I mean, I was human ten minutes ago.” 

 

Anna’s eyes widened. “You were human?” 

 

Cas nodded. “G—, I mean,  _ Chuck _ showed up and told me I died by mistake, and I took the blue pill.” Dean would’ve been proud of his pop culture reference, Cas thought fondly. 

 

“Chuck.” Anna stepped close, examining him, wonder on her face. She raised her right hand toward his forehead, two fingers extended. “May I see?” 

 

His grace pulsed and Cas knew she wanted to see inside his mind. Intrusive, but her sudden, intense curiosity convinced him this was important. He nodded.

 

She pressed her fingers lightly to the skin just below his hairline and closed her eyes. Her touch ran through Cas like cool rivulets of water. Anna pulled her hand away from his face, fingers trembling, eyes shining. She stared at him for a long moment, then place her palms on either side of his face. 

 

“Do not tell anyone that you were human, not matter who asks.” She locked eyes with him. “This is a direct order, Castiel. I don’t care if Michael himself asks you about it,  _ do not  _ tell anyone who you were.” 

 

She released him and stepped back. “You’re an angel now, in my garrison. We are the guardians of worthy humans, and they deserve the best we have to offer. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t meant to be.”

 

Cas nodded. He knew something was going on here that he didn’t understand, but he also knew that Chuck’s behavior and Anna’s reaction to his “promotion” meant he need to play this closer to the chest. 

 

“Good.” Anna strode over to a long, tall cabinet near the door. Her arm disappeared inside and reemerged with a gleaming silver blade. She beckoned Cas forward. 

 

“This is yours, and yours alone. Angel blades are among the universe’s most powerful weapons, and I don’t normally issue them unless the angel’s charge is likely to confront supernatural enemies.” She pressed the hilt into his palm. “Even though your charge is a fireman, I think you might need this.”

 

“A fireman?” Cas quashed the hope the flared behind his sternum. The odds against it were astronomical. 

  
“Your charge’s name is Dean Winchester. Good luck.”


	6. Chapter 5

The bottle of 25-year Laphroaig sat half-empty on Dean’s coffee table, drops of the amber liquid twinkling on the dark wood, reflecting the dull light of the muted television across the room. The same flickering light painted Dean’s face the pale blue of a corpse as he stared at the screen, fingers of one hand twisting a nearly empty tumbler on his knee.

 

Cas’s heart ached. He’d been dead less than a day, and Dean’s pain was still so fresh it emanated from his soul, red-yellow-black waves Cas could see without eyes. He reached out to sooth, but Dean’s aura rippled away and his hand slipped through the man’s body like air.

 

“I just wish I could touch you one more time,” Dean rasped, voice cracking.” Cas started, but Dean’s glassy, bloodshot eyes stayed locked on the meaningless images flickering across the screen.

 

“I’m scared of being alone again, Cas.” Dean punctuated the confession by knocking back the rest of his whiskey. “But I know I deserve it. I fucked up and got you killed.”

 

Cas bowed his head. Of course Dean blamed himself. Cas reached out to his friend, unable to connect.

 

Dean reached for the bottle. Poured himself another glass. “I’m not family or an emergency contact—” (Cas kicked himself for neglecting that) “—so I couldn’t even get in to see you at the hospital. You were all alone, Cas.” Dean gasped, drawing air through a throat too tight to breathe. “I promised you’d never be alone.” He swallowed more whiskey, and Cas felt the phantom burn of it down his throat.

 

“Dean, please,” Cas begged. “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

Dean didn’t hear him, folding over and clutching the back of his head with one hand as sobs shook his sturdy frame. Cas thought he’d never looked so fragile.

 

Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory” rang through the apartment. Dean’s phone.

 

Dean wrestled back control of himself, pulling his shoulders back and clearing his throat. He lifted the cell to his ear. “Hello?”

 

“Hi, my name is Jessica Moore. Is this Dean Winchester?”

 

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, but now’s really not a good time.”

 

A beat of silence. Then, “Wow, Dean. I’m not a telemarketer. I’m Sam’s girlfriend, from Stanford. I know he’s told you about me.”

 

Dean sat up straight. Castiel saw how the alcohol still fogged his thoughts, but Dean was as alert as he could be, no longer welcoming the liquor’s looming invitation to oblivion. “Is Sammy okay?”

 

“Not really.” Cas wished he could see the expression behind those heavy words. Instantly, his grace tugged at his center and he was two places at once. Bilocating felt — as so many of his limited experiences as an angel did — at once natural and utterly unfamiliar. Dean still sat on the couch in front of him, the small apartment visible around them, but Cas also saw Jessica pacing around a clean, organized bedroom. She was packing, tossing items into a gray duffle bag. “I’m calling you because Sam needs help, and you’re the only one he might still listen to.” She shoved a first aid kit into the duffle. “He’s shut out everyone else. Even me.”

 

Dean stood, swayed for a moment before finding his equilibrium. “What kind of trouble?”

 

Jessica reached up, her height allowing her to easily pull a small wooden box off the back of the top shelf of her closet. It had a strange symbol carved into the center of the lid; the name “Aquarian star” rose up from Castiel’s grace. “I’m not totally sure, but it’s bad.” Jessica opened the box, and Castiel’s grace vibrated.

 

“Where is he? Where are you?” Dean demanded, as Jessica pulled a few items from the box. Each one  —  a charm bracelet, a cloth bag, and a pendant  —  hummed against Castiel’s angelic nature like a struck tuning fork.

 

“I’m in our apartment in Palo Alto, but I’m going out looking for Sam.” Jessica hung the pendant around her neck, slipped the bracelet around her wrist, and tucked the bag into her jacket pocket. “I tried talking to him a week ago and I think it spooked him. No one’s seen or heard from him in six days.”

 

“Six days?!” Dean exploded, tugging at his hair with his free hand. “And you’re just calling me now?”

 

“It’s not like this is the first time your brother’s been out of touch for awhile, Dean.”

 

Cas saw the iron chains of guilt wrap around Dean’s soul. He reached out to lift some of the burden, but Dean clung to the heavy links like a lifeline. “I knew something was wrong,” Dean berated himself. “I should’ve come out there sooner.”

 

Jessica wrestled her mass of blonde curls into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. “You’re not the only one who didn’t step in sooner,” she said softly, a sympathetic confession.

 

Dean fumbled through his closet, pulling a worn backpack from the back corner and stuffing clothes into it, seemingly at random. “What got you off the bench?” Dean’s gruff tone sounded angry, but Cas knew it masked fear.

 

Jessica stilled, fingertips white on the zipper of her duffle. “He’s not alone. He’s been going off with some other girl.”

 

Dean swept past his father’s journal, resting on the nightstand, and Castiel’s collection of intrinsic knowledge suddenly included the future. Or, a piece of it. Like peering through a keyhole, he couldn’t see why, but he felt in his grace the journal was immensely important and Dean _needed_ to bring it with him.

 

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Dean said, moving into the bathroom. “Sam’s not that kind of guy.” With one arm, Dean swept the pile of personal hygiene products scattered along the countertop into the backpack. _Go back for your father’s journal_ , Castiel pushed at his charge. Dean hesitated, then ducked back into his room, snatched up the worn book, and buried it in his bag.

 

Jessica took a deep breath. “I know he’s not. When I found out I started snooping. Dean, the girl he’s with is bad news. I don’t think Sam would be with her if he knew.”

 

Dean stumbled into the wall as he hurried back into the living room on unsteady legs. “So you’re gonna go rescue him from the girl he’s cheating on you with?”

 

Jessica slowly pulled one last item out of the cigar box, a small compass. The needle spun madly, a frantic, fruitless search for True North. She spun around, wide eyes scanning the room, limbs tensed.

 

“Jessica? You still there?” Dean nearly fell over attempting to slid his foot into a boot.

 

Her gaze passing over Castiel, Jessica turned back to the bag and zipped it decisively. “Yes. And call me Jess.”

 

“Wait for me,” Dean demanded. “I’m on my way right now.”

 

Cas balked. Dean was in no condition to drive.

 

Jess slung her bag over one shoulder, grabbing a water bottle off the table as she strode toward her front door. “Aren’t you in Kansas? I’m literally on my way out the door.”

 

“I can be there in like two hours,” Dean insisted.

 

 _Not if you can’t find your keys,_ Cas thought, swiping them off the hook by the door and tucking them into his pocket.

 

“There’s no way you can get from Kansas to California in two hours without breaking several laws of physics or flying a plane,” Jess scoffed. “And while I’d be impressed with either, there’s no need. I’m just doing recon tonight. You can meet up with me when you get here.”

 

Dean reached for his keys, dragging his fingers over the empty hook. “What the?” he muttered. He bent to search the floor, thinking they’d fallen, and swayed into the wall. Cas winced as he felt Dean’s vertigo. “Ugh. Maybe I shouldn’t drive right now.” Dean sat heavily. Despite the throb of Dean’s pain and nausea against his grace, a crooked smile crossed Cas’s face at the rush of satisfaction at his first successful act as a guardian angel.

 

“Dean, you okay?”

 

Dean snorted. “Peachy.” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I’ll call you when I get to Cali. This number usually good for you?”

 

“Yeah.” Jess locked her apartment door behind her before striding down the hall toward the stairs. “It’s my cell. I might have it silenced, so text me if I don’t answer.”

 

“‘Kay.” Dean cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. “Hey, Jess?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Thanks for calling me.” It didn’t make it into Dean’s voice, but Cas could see the weight of the emotion behind the words.

 

Jess stopped, leaning against the stairwell door for a moment. She closed her eyes. “Dean, I’ve only known Sam for a couple of years, but I know you two are close. He really looks up to you.” She opened her eyes, staring at nothing. “If anybody can help me save him, you can.”

 

Dean struggled to speak, throat and jaw working for several seconds. “See you tomorrow,” he choked out, ending the call.

 

Jess faded from Cas’s view as she descended the stairs.

 

Dean thunked his head back against the wall. “Fuck.”

 

Cas sat beside his friend, shoulder to shoulder. He could almost pretend things were back to normal. “You’ll be alright, Dean,” he said, unheard. “Get some rest tonight, so you can help Sam tomorrow.”

 

Dean scrubbed his face with both hands. A few minutes later, he pushed himself off the floor, stumbled into his bedroom, and face-planted on the bed.

 

That night, Castiel discovered he didn’t need to sleep and he could keep nightmares at bay. He wished he could do more.

 

***

 

The park bench was uncomfortably cold. Anna hadn’t taken a vessel in decades; she’d forgotten how uncomfortable humans were most of the time. Her jeans and long jacket barely dulled the bite of the metal and her breath fogged in the night air. Even southern California was cold in the middle of winter in the middle of the night. Anna turned the page of the book on her lap  —  a King James borrowed from the hotel where her vessel had been staying  —  keeping her cover intact.

 

She preferred fighting to reconnaissance, but right now she needed information. Her newest subordinate, Castiel, was the first human to be transformed into an angel since Enoch. It had been thousands of years since their Father saw fit to intervene in such a direct manner, and even then, only the four archangels ever saw His Face. Anna wanted to find out why the Creator had taken an interest. She’d started by watching Castiel’s progress with his charge, but that only led to more questions when it became clear they’d known each other well while Castiel was human.

 

Why bring them back together as guardian and charge? What was so important about this Dean Winchester? As far as Anna could tell, he wasn’t anything special. A good human, certainly, but hardly remarkable. Anna knew that sometimes guardians were assigned not just to one charge, but an entire family, so rather than follow Castiel and his charge to California, she went ahead to find and watch Sam Winchester. Which is how she came to be perched on this frigid bench, monitoring the vacant warehouse Sam snuck in to twenty minutes ago.

 

Ten minutes later, as Anna was considering masking her presence and sneaking into the building herself, the muffled sounds of a struggle drifted from the far corner of the building. Two figures emerged from the darkness, one forcing the other toward the cracked door Sam had entered through. Human eyes would have seen a slight brunette in a black leather jacket pushing a much-larger light-haired man in front of her. Human eyes couldn’t see what Anna’s could.

 

Her grace writhed in instinctive repulsion. _Demons_. Either Sam Winchester was in need of immediate angelic assistance, or his soul was in grave danger. Anna left the bible on the bench and followed the two demons into the building, using her grace to hide her presence as she did.

 

“What took you so long, Ruby?” Sam’s voice had a similar tenor to his older brother’s, Anna thought.

 

The brunette made an exasperated face as she tied the other demon to a chair in the center of a devil’s trap painted on the floor. “It took me a while to find one I could nab without attracting too much attention,” she said, testing her knots. “We’re flying under the radar here Sam, remember?”

 

Satisfied with her handiwork, she stepped to the edge of the devil’s trap. Sam bent and scratched a mar in the design, allowing her to escape. He sprayed over the mark immediately, sealing the captive demon back inside. A demon trapping another demon? _What’s going on here?_ Anna wondered.

 

“You ready?” Ruby looked up at Sam, coming to stand at his side.

 

Sam nodded, then closed his eyes and extended an arm, his palm open toward the trapped demon. Anna watched closely, both with her vessel’s eyes and with all of her angelic senses.

 

The bound demon sneered, coughed, heaved. Black smoke poured out from its mouth and nose, pooling on the ground before sinking into the earth.

 

Anna looked on in horror as Sam forced the demon’s essence back down to Hell. Humans did not possess such power, and neither did angels. They could kill demons, they were built for it, but the only power that could control a demon like that was _of_ hell. Sam Winchester was somehow accessing demonic power.

 

“Way to go, Sam,” Ruby congratulated him. “I told you it’d be easier this time.”

 

Sam wiped a trickle of blood from his nose. “Is he alive?”

 

Ruby stepped into the devil’s trap and checked the host. “He needs a hospital, but he’ll be fine.” She looked up at Sam and smiled. “You saved another one.”

 

Anna swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Winchester may have good intentions, but that wouldn’t save him if he continued down this path. Demonic power in a human’s hands, with humanity's utter lack of cosmic restrictions  —  free will and all that  —  was a recipe for disaster. Her superiors needed to hear about this, immediately.

 

Anna crept out of the building and flew to her vessel’s hotel room. She needed to get back to Heaven and report.

 

“Hello, Anael.”

 

Anna spun. “Uriel!” Her brother led a garrison of warriors, specialists in destruction. “What are you doing here?”

 

“You should not have witnessed that, dear sister.” His silver blade glinted in the moonlight streaming in through the window.

 

Anna lifted her chin and drew her own weapon. “Don’t fight me, brother. You won’t win.”

 

“I don’t need to.”

 

Anna sensed a presence behind her. She pivoted, but too late. The light within her screamed as the blade pierced her core. “Father, please,” she pleaded, collapsing.

 

Uriel loomed over her, a dark silhouette against the moonlit ceiling. “Father doesn’t care anymore, if he ever did. You’re alone. We’re _all_ alone.”

 

Anna prayed her brother was wrong and succumbed to bright oblivion.

 

***

 

Dean guided the Impala to the curb in front of Sam and Jess’s apartment complex. Jess stepped out the front door a moment later, a backpack on her shoulders. She tossed it into the back seat — within easy reach — and slid into the front seat. “You ready?”

 

Dean nodded. “Where’re we headed?”

 

“The Star Inn.” She made a face. “Straight ahead until we hit Fifth, then take a left.”

 

Dean pulled away from the curb. “Sounds like a classy joint. Sammy there with this bad-news girl of his?”

 

Jess nodded. “It’s a by-the-hour sleaze-fest. If you’d have told me four months ago Sam would take a girl there, I’d’ve laughed in your face.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

They rode in silence, Jess sizing up the car. “So this is the famous Baby,” she said after a couple minutes.

 

Dean half-smiled. “Sammy tell you about her?”

 

“He said this car was basically your home growing up, and that you have an unhealthy attachment to it,” she quipped, a teasing grin softening the words.

 

“Yeah, Baby’s my girl.”

 

“Left here,” Jess pointed. She bent and picked John’s journal up off the floor by her feet. “What’s this?”

 

Dean shrugged, trying to play it off. He didn’t even know why he’d brought the damn thing along. “My dad’s journal.”

 

Jess stilled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Sam told me he passed. I can put it away, if you want?”

 

Dean hesitated, then sighed. “Nah, go ahead. Just don’t let the thing give you nightmares. Our dad was some kind of undiagnosed crazy. Thought the world was full of monsters.”

 

“Monsters?” Jess didn’t look up from the journal, engrossed.

 

“Yeah,” Dean replied, eyes on the road. “Ghosts, vampires, demons. Super-powered guns that can kill ‘em.”

 

Jess riffled through the journal, paging quickly. She stayed silent until the final page. Dean heard her sharp inhale as she read John’s last letter to him. He waited for her judgement, her fear at knowing she was trapped in a car with an insane man’s son.

 

“What do these numbers and letters mean? Is it a code?”

 

Dean did a double-take. Road. Jess’s intense face. Road. Face.

 

“What?”

 

“Do you know where he hid the Colt?”

 

Jess was one hundred percent serious. Dean stared back at her for three seconds, mouth open. The blare of a horn snapped his head back around and he jerked the Impala away from oncoming traffic. He pulled over, tires squealing. The car jerked to a stop.

 

“Jess, start talking.”

 

Her face tightened. She looked down at the journal, brow furrowed, then out the window. Her translucent reflection stared over Dean’s shoulder for a long moment.

 

Jess closed her eyes and sighed. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. Sam doesn’t even know, but you might need to.”

 

She pivoted in her seat, setting the journal on the dash as she tucked one bent leg beneath her, the other foot planted on the seat in front of her knee, shin creating a barrier between them. It looked uncomfortable as hell, but Dean had seen dozens of girls sit like that while watching movies or playing on their phones. He waited for her to continue.

 

“What your dad wrote down,” she jutted her chin toward the journal, “it’s all real. I think your dad is what we call a hunter.”

 

Hysteria and guilt started a war in Dean’s chest — _monsters are real and they kill people! I didn’t believe my dad, abandoned him when he needed my help_ — but he swallowed it down. Compartmentalized. Just like during a rescue. “Who’s we?”

 

Jess avoided his eyes. “My family. It’s a long story.”

 

“Make it shorter.”

 

She glared at him. “We were part of a group called the Men of Letters. A global organization of stuffy, rich, white guys who thought they were better than everyone else because they studied ‘the most secret and arcane knowledge’ even though they never lifted a finger to help anyone with what they knew.” Jess even made actual air quotes with her fingers. It tugged at Dean’s heart. Cas had done that. “My family broke off, or ‘went rogue’ as the society would say, in the early 1920s,” Jess continued. “We wanted to help people, and got the blessing of the Catholic Church to do it. They call us whenever there’s a possession or monster that a normal exorcist can’t handle. My uncle Bobby, Father Robert Moore, is the one in charge of that division right now. So, the general public doesn’t go into a panic because of supernatural encounters, and we get to put our knowledge to use.”

 

Dean’s head was spinning — ha! _Exorcist_ joke. He shook his head. _Focus now, Dean. Freak out later._ “So, what did my dad have to do with it? You called him a hunter?”

 

Jess nodded. “There are people who encounter the supernatural and survive, then become vigilantes, I guess you could say. They hunt down and kill monsters that are killing people. We don’t work with them, because they tend to be loners and, well—” she glanced at Dean, but continued at his encouraging nod, “— they’re not really known for being emotionally stable. Most of them got into hunting because someone close to them died.”

 

Jess gave him a searching look, and Dean thought back. “Mom,” he whispered.

 

“Sorry,” Jess murmured.

 

Dean pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Took a deep breath. Turned back to Jess. “So what’s so important about the gun? My dad’s letter made it seem like a big deal, and you’re obviously interested.”

 

Jess leaned forward, arms wrapped around her upright knee. “Colt’s gun is legendary. Some hunters don’t even believe it exists. It’s pretty much the only weapon we know of that allows a human with no magical ability to kill powerful supernatural entities. If your dad found it...”

 

She trailed off, and Dean finished. “Everyone’s gonna want it. All the demons, all the hunters.”

 

Jess nodded. “Watch your back, Dean. If anyone, any _thing_ knew your dad found that gun, they’re all going to be after you.”

 

Dean sat back, eyes wide. “What if that killed him?” He stared out the windshield, imagining his father’s last moments. “What if demons tracked him down and killed him, trying to get that gun?”

 

Jess bit her lip. “It’s possible, but that’s all conjecture.” She laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself, Dean. You couldn’t have known.”

 

“Yes, I could!” Dean’s shout startled him, but he couldn’t keep his voice down. “Dad could have told me! He could have told me what he was up against! I could have helped!”

 

“And taken away your childhood? Dean, would you really have wanted to grow up in this?”

 

Yeah, because their transient childhood had been so peachy. Dean clenched his jaw, blinking back hot tears. “You grew up in it and turned out okay.”

 

“Growing up in the Men of Letters is _totally different_ than growing up a hunter,” Jess said fiercely. “I had an extra subject or three to study after school, you’d have been out risking your life fighting things that want to _eat you_.”

 

Dean closed his eyes tight. He wanted to cover his ears like a child, keep her truths away. He just wanted to be angry. Jess grabbed both his shoulders and gave him a little shake.

 

“Hey! Your dad gave you and Sam a chance at a normal life. That’s more than I had. He loved you enough to give you that.” Dean met her steely gaze and she released him. “Don’t waste that gift being a stubborn asshole.”

 

The car fell silent for a few minutes, the air around them heavy and coiled. Dean let out a lungful of air in a cathartic groan. He took a deep breath. Then another. “Fine. What are we up against with Sam and this girl of his. You think it has something to do with the demon’s plans for Sam?”

 

Jess shook her head, eyeing him warily, watching for another outburst. “I’m not sure. I couldn’t get close enough to get a good read, but from what I have seen I’m thinking she might be a witch.”

 

Dean made a face. “Skeevy.”

 

“You have no idea.” She gave him a pointed glance, shifting her eyes to the steering wheel and back. “So are we doing this, or what?”

 

Dean turned the ignition and pulled back onto the road.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he’d managed to stow the swirl of emotions Jess’s revelation had stirred up, just in time for them to arrive at the Star Inn.

 

“They’re in room 13,” Jess said softly, pulling her backpack off the seat behind her. She reached inside and pulled out a burlap bag smaller than her fist. “Here.”

 

Dean took the proffered bag and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

 

“Protection,” Jess replied. “I made it pretty generic, so it’s not super-strong, but it’ll work against a lot of different stuff.”

 

“Great,” Dean muttered, stuffing it into his jacket pocket with the keys to the Impala. He squared his shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

 

They walked to the door in silence. Dean shot Jess a _here goes nothing_ glance and knocked twice. They heard shuffling from inside through the thin walls, then the door swung open and Dean laid eyes on his little brother for the first time in almost four years.

 

“Heya, Sammy. You got taller.”

 

“Dean?” Sam stared, hair still damp from a shower.

 

Jess stepped from behind Dean. “Hey, Sam.”

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Jess, what are you doing here?” His eyes darted from brother to ex-girlfriend and back again. “Do you two know each other?”

 

“We do now,” Dean said, pushing his way into the motel room. It had rose-red carpet and freaking _mirrors_ on the ceiling. “Wow, you sure do know how to treat a girl, Sam.”

 

“Shut up, Dean. It’s not what it looks like.”

 

A slender brunette stepped out of the bathroom, wearing only panties and a cami.

 

“Really?” Dean snarked. “Because it looks like you’re sleeping with your dealer.” Sam balked. Dean paused. The drug joke hit harder than he’d expected. “Is that what she is? Your freaking dealer?”

 

Brunette wrapped her arms around one of Sam’s. “What’s it to you?” Sassy bitch, Dean thought.

 

“Ruby, this is my brother, Dean,” Sam said, trying to diffuse the tension. “And that’s Jess.” His voice caught on her name.

 

Jess stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Ruby smirked. “Aw, is this some kind of intervention?” She laughed. “Sam doesn’t need you anymore, either of you.”

 

Dean kept his face hard to hide how much that stung. “C’mon Sam. This isn’t you. Let’s go home and talk this out.”

 

“‘This isn’t you?’” Sam echoed. “Dean, you don’t even know me anymore.”

 

“And whose fault is that, huh?” Dean asked, the old hurt fueling new fury. “You’re the one who ran off and told me to get lost when I came looking for you!”

 

“I wanted a life of my own! There’s nothing wrong with that!” Sam shouted.

 

“And what about my life?! You left me to pick up the pieces whenever Dad fell apart, until he left me, too!”

 

At the mention of John, both brothers paused, playing chicken in front of a line neither wanted to cross. Sam crossed it anyway.

 

“Dad was more of a drill sergeant than a father and he lied to us for years,” Sam spat. Dean held his breath waiting for the words he knew were coming next. “He deserved what he got.”

 

Jess covered her mouth with her hands.

 

Dean shook his head. “You don’t get to make that call, Sam. Let’s go.” He stepped forward and grabbed his brother’s arm. Sam pulled back, and Ruby shoved Dean away with more force than he thought such a tiny frame could have. He stumbled backward into Jess, who was reaching into her backpack.

 

Ruby started for them but froze, mid-step. Her eyes went wide, then pitch-black.

 

Dean glanced at Sam and Jess to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, but no. Jess’s face was scared but fierce, and Sam’s looked like he’d just been kicked in the nuts.

 

Ruby backed away, hands held in front of her, warding off some unseen terror. Jess lunged forward, backpack first, and Ruby threw her head back. Black smoke poured out of her mouth, arched overhead and disappeared into the ground.

 

Dean turned in a slow circle, wide eyes scanning the room. Ruby’s body lay crumpled on the red floor, brown hair fanning across her face, obscuring her open eyes. He turned to Jess and stared at her backpack. “Holy shit! What the fuck do you have in there?”

 

Jess shook her head, searching for words. “Nothing that would do _that_ to a demon.”

 

“Oh my god.” Sam collapsed backward onto the bed, legs splaying awkwardly in front of him.

 

Dean walked over and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Yeah, demons are real. You’ll adjust.”

 

Sam looked up at him. “I know, Dean. I’ve been exorcising them for months. Ruby taught me how...”

 

Dean backed up a step. “You know?” He fought to control his voice, but couldn’t keep the incredulity out. “You’ve known about demons and all the shit dad hunted, and not only did you _not tell me_ , you started working with a fucking demon?”

 

Sam shook his head and clutched Dean’s jacket. “No! I didn’t know she was... She saved me, Dean. I got attacked by a demon and she fought it off.” He stared into the middle distance. “She played me. The whole time. Oh my god.”

 

“What did she give you, Sam?” Jess stepped forward. “I know you’ve been taking something.”

 

“Jess, I’m so sorry,” Sam started, but Jess cut him off. “Save it, Winchester. What did the bitch give you? I saw you in that warehouse. What is it you needed from her so badly?”

 

Sam hid his face behind his hands. “Blood,” he whispered. “Her blood. She said it’d make me strong enough to exorcise them.”

 

“Fuck,” Jess breathed.

 

“I’m assuming that’s a Very Bad Thing?” Dean asked, looking to Jess.

 

“I’ve never heard of it happening before, but yeah. Probably a very fucking bad thing. Especially because she wanted you to do it.” She settled the backpack around her shoulders and turned toward the door. “We need to get out of here before she comes back with friends.”

 

Sam wrapped his arms around his large frame. “You guys should just go. Leave me here.”

 

“No freaking way, Sam.” Dean hauled his giant little brother to his feet. “Don’t make me fireman carry you outta here, dude.”

 

Sam cooperated, but Dean recognized the signs of shock setting in. He’d underestimated Sam’s attachment to this Ruby chick.

 

“Move it, guys!” Jess hissed from the door. She pulled her cellphone out of her jeans, hit one button, and pressed it to her ear, striding toward the Impala.

 

“Who’re you calling?” Dean asked, struggling to catch up, Sam in tow.

  
“Uncle Bobby,” Jess said, the unsaid _duh you moron_ in her tone. “We’re dealing with _demons_. We need help from somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing.”


	7. Chapter 6

The Impala’s sturdy frame flew over the blacktop, her tires eating up the midnight miles. Dean sat behind the wheel, guiding his baby back toward Junction City as Castiel watched, invisible, from the passenger seat. The angel glanced to where Jess sat in the back with Sam, helping him through the early stages of withdrawal. Purging the demon blood from his system would be a long, painful process, his grace told him. One that might kill a human, but Cas suspected the Winchesters were made of a stronger constitution than most.

 

“The dean’s office emailed me back,” Jess said softly, scrolling down her phone screen while dabbing Sam’s damp forehead with a beach towel. It had goldfish on it. Cas liked it. “I think Sam’s been skipping class for a while, but we both have official permission to miss a few weeks for personal reasons as long as we make up our work and exams before the end of the semester.”

 

“Thanks, Jess.” Dean knew jack squat about how college worked, but he got the sense that was a big deal.

 

“I’m pretty much a miracle worker for pulling that off, you know,” she informed him.

 

“I said thanks.”

 

Jess rolled her eyes.

 

“How’s Sam?”

 

She sombered. “If it’s like detox for normal drugs, it’ll get much worse before it gets better.”

 

Cas felt Dean’s dread, coiling around his soul like a sickness. He reached out to sooth his friend, but a sharp tug — almost painful — hooked his grace and pulled him away like a fish on a line.

 

He blinked, and the white room came into view, filing cabinets and all.

 

“Castiel, welcome home.”

 

Cas spun around and came face to face with a balding man in a black business suit. No, a balding _angel_.

 

“My name is Zachariah.” He smiled at Cas, but it wasn’t friendly. It made Cas think of the smarmy politician he’d once filed taxes for. What a nightmare.

 

“Not very chatty, are you? I called you here to inform you that I’m your new superior.”

 

Cas frowned. “What happened to Anna?”

 

Zachariah sighed, putting on a show of concern. “Unfortunately Anael is a casualty of war. She died in battle.”

 

“Battle with who?” Cas had only spoken to her once, but she’d struck him as fair, and not unkind.

 

“None of your concern,” Zachariah snapped, before collecting himself. “Tell me about what you’ve been up to, Castiel. As your superior, I need to keep tabs on your activities as a guardian.”

 

Cas resisted groaning, barely. He’d had bosses like this before. Well, best to rip off the band-aid quickly. “I’ve only been on watch for two days, and in that time I’ve kept Dean from driving while intoxicated and because of a premonition, I urged him to take his father’s journal with him on a trip, and he listened. Then, I nudged his companion, Jessica Moore, until she revealed that her family studies the supernatural. She was stubborn, but listened eventually. I also scared away a demon that was about to attack.” Cas had never felt so powerful, his grace roaring inside him, the demon’s eyes jet black at its fury. Cas straightened his back a bit. He was doing a good job protecting Dean, he must be.

 

Zachariah leaned in closer. “What about the brother? What did you learn about him?”

 

Confused, Cas responded carefully. “Sam was working with the demon to exorcise other demons. She was giving him her blood to make him better at it, somehow.”

 

“Why would she do that?” Zachariah’s expression was stoic, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. This was clearly about more than just a demon tempting a human.

 

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied. “I tried to get Sam to tell Dean, but if he knows the reason, he resisted confessing it.”

 

Zachariah pulled away, turning his back on Cas. His reflection rippled across the room on the metallic gray cabinets. He looked profoundly relieved.

 

Suspicious, Cas diverted Zachariah’s line of inquiry. “Am I to change how I am defending my charge?”

 

Zachariah pivoted, smarmy smile firmly back in place. “Absolutely.”

 

Startled, Cas protested. “What? But what I’m doing is working, isn’t it?”

 

“A little too well, I’m afraid,” Zachariah answered. “We need to let the little mud monkeys learn life’s lessons on their own sometimes, Castiel.”

 

Realisation and horror spread through Cas like a cold fog. “What are you saying?”

 

“You are to interfere as little as possible, only acting when it is absolutely necessary in order to keep Dean alive,” Zachariah instructed, as though it didn’t cut out Cas’s heart. “The next time he’s in a situation you see a way to fix, let it play out.”

 

Castiel wanted to argue, but his superior’s command squeezed his grace like a vice. He nodded, and flew back to Dean’s side.

 

***

 

Dean opened the door to his apartment and froze. “What the fuck?”

 

His place was ransacked. Couch cushions lay strewn about on the floor, the TV stand pulled away from the wall, armchair on its side. Dean rushed into his bedroom and discovered a similar mess. His sheets were piled on the floor and his mattress was on its side, ripped down the middle. Even his garbage bin was upended.

 

“Who trashed your place?” Sam’s teeth chattered around the question as he stepped into the apartment, Jess partially supporting his weight.

 

Dean shook his head slowly, mouth agape. “No friggin’ clue.” He scanned the bedroom, bathroom and living area again, doing a quick inventory. “Nothing’s stolen, I don’t think. What could they have...” He trailed off, eyes going to the duffle bag he’d dropped in the doorway.

 

Jess followed his gaze. “The journal.”

 

“Jesus Christ, they know where I live.” Dean leaned against the small peninsula counter separating his living room from the kitchen.

 

A grunt pulled his attention back to Sam and Jess, who was struggling under Sam’s fading strength.

 

“He needs to lie down somewhere,” she grunted.

 

Dean glanced at his pale, sweaty brother and nodded. He hurried back into his bedroom and righted the mattress, ripped side down. He yanked on the first sheet he grabbed and helped Jess get Sam horizontal. Sam barely responded.

 

“It looks like this is gonna get ugly.” Dean turned to Jess. “Go, get a room at the Motel 6 up the road. It’s only like five miles away, and at least one of us should get a good night’s sleep.”

 

Jess hesitated, took Sam’s pulse one more time, then relented. She pulled something that looked like a compass out of her backpack and handed it to Dean. “Keep this on you at all times. It detects supernatural energies. If the needle starts spinning, something’s close.”

 

“Supernatural early warning system. Nice.” Dean tipped his rickety nightstand with one foot, righting it, and set the compass on top.

 

Jess pulled a first aid kit out of her backpack and set it next to the compass. “Take his temperature and pulse every hour, and if his temp hits 105 or drops below 94 degrees or his pulse goes below 40 or above 110, call 911 or get him to a hospital, then call me. Got it?”

 

Dean blinked. “What’re you a doctor or something?”

 

She gave him an exasperated look. “Fourth-year pre-med with a 3.95 GPA and I just aced an elective on toxicology last semester.”

 

“Right.” Dean placed his hands on her shoulders. “Jess, go get some sleep. I’ll be fine here with Sam. I’ll text you if anything changes.”

 

She searched his eyes for a moment, but must’ve found the reassurance she was looking for, because she nodded. Dean walked her to the door, then locked it behind her... Not that the deadbolt had done anything to prevent demons from breaking in. Dean glanced toward his bedroom, but Sam was quiet. He needed a drink.

 

Two sips into a glass of what was left of his Laphroaig — the reminder of Cas still squeezed Dean’s heart like a fist — Sam started yelling.

 

Dean abandoned his glass on the counter and ran into the bedroom. Sam thrashed and hollered, slamming his limbs against the mattress, wall and anything else in range.

 

Dean tried to hold him down by his shoulders — “Hey Sammy, calm down, I’ve got you. I’ve got you!” — but Sam couldn’t hear him. Cursing, Dean lunged into his closet and ripped every belt he owned off the hanger in the back. Standing over his little brother, Dean hesitated.

 

A seizure slammed Sam’s temple into the nightstand, knocking the compass to the floor, and Dean leapt into action. It took him a full five minutes and he was as soaked in sweat as his feverish brother afterward, but Dean managed to secure Sam’s wrists and ankles to the bed.

 

“You hate me,” Sam muttered, twisting his head away from Dean. He wanted to deny it, to tell Sam he loved him, and always would, but Dean’s lungs refused to draw in the breath he needed to speak. The room was too small, the air to heavy, and Dean couldn’t breath. He retreated to the kitchen, _like the chicken-shit I am_ , Dean thought.  

 

Sam yelled in pain, physical or emotional, Dean didn’t know, but each scream cut a piece off of his soul. Bent over the counter, Dean tried to drown out the noise with whiskey, but he didn’t have enough left to even take the edge off.

 

How was he supposed to help Sam through this and deal with _fucking demons_ at the same time? More than any moment since his death, Dean wish his dad was there to take some of the crushing weight off his shoulders. But then, John hadn’t ever been good at sharing the load. He was always more likely to pile it on. _Look after your little brother while I’m gone, boy! Watch out for Sammy_. John’s voice echoed in Dean’s skull.

 

Dean opened his kitchen window to the frigid winter night and stared up at the sky. He wasn’t strong enough. Never would be.

 

“Please,” he started. The word escaped his throat like a shard of glass, ripping and tearing. “I can’t...” _Of course I can’t. I’m never enough_ . “I need some help.” _Why would anyone help you?_ Dean broke down, no one there to see his weakness, ugliness. No one to listen. No one to care. “Please?”  

 

Laying facedown on the bedroom floor, the compass needle whirled.

 

***

 

Castiel shook with pent up frustration. Dean was _so close_. Cas could feel his friend’s soul stretch tentatively toward faith, but pull back at the last instant, closing off again. Clenching his fists, Cas scowled as Dean polished off the (really expensive) whiskey they never got to share, drag his armchair upright and settle in to watch terrible television all night on a cracked screen.

 

All night.

 

Save for the few minutes it took him to check Sam’s temperature and pulse every hour, Dean never moved or spoke, Castiel resisting the urge to reassure him, Zachariah’s order fresh in his mind.

 

At 3:59 a.m., Sam’s yelling finally died down. At 6:24, both Winchesters were sound asleep. At 8:14, Sam called for his brother.

 

Dean stumbled into the bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Sammy?”

 

“Dean, I really need to pee. Let me up!”

 

Dean fumbled with his makeshift restraints. Sam rolled off the bed the instant he was loose and lurched into the bathroom. Cas followed Dean as he ambled into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, yawning and shaking his head to wake himself up.

 

They returned to the bedroom in time to see Sam collapse back onto the sheets, wrinkling his nose at their smell. Dean handed him the water.

 

“How’re you feeling?” Dean’s concern emanated from his soul like sunlight.

 

“I’ll live,” Sam intoned, tried not to sound disappointed. Castiel felt his pain and stepped closer to offer comfort, but Zachariah’s warning stayed his hand.

 

Dean wet his lips and sat beside his brother. “It’s really good to see you again, Sammy. I wish we were having this little reunion under better circumstances, but I’m glad.”

 

Memories flashed through Castiel’s mind that didn’t belong to his past. Younger versions of Dean and Sam roughhousing, laughter filling the small motel room; Dean consoling a weeping Sam, and Cas remembered without remembering that Sam was leaving behind a friend at school, his first real friend; the boys arguing over the best snack to eat while watching movies, each adamant their choice should be the victor in the ridiculous competition.

 

Dean’s bedroom came back into focus. The brothers’ conversation today lacked the ludic banter of the past, its presence a phantom limb Castiel itched to restore. He grieved for their lost camaraderie, and resolved to fan the spark he could see in the bond between the brothers’ souls until it burned hot once again.

 

Sam shook his head, turning away from Dean’s forgiveness. “How can you say that, after what I did? And not just the Ruby stuff. You were just trying to be my brother, and I pushed you away.”

 

“We were all assholes at 19.” Dean shrugged. “I got over it a long time ago,” he lied. “All I’m saying is, don’t beat yourself up.”

 

Sam met his brother’s gaze, eyes bloodshot and wet, and shook his head, uncomprehending. “I fucked everything up for you, your whole life. Jesus, you had to go to Dad’s funeral _alone_ because I wasn’t there.”

 

Castiel saw the old hurt flare up, and Dean’s jaw clenched. Throwing caution to the wind, Cas laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pushed soothing grace across his soul. _Don’t let him bait you. He’s just as afraid and hurt as you are._

 

Dean closed his eyes and took a breath before replying. “I’m not saying that you didn’t screw up big time or that I’m not pissed.” He ran a hand through his sleep-disheveled hair. “You and dad, you got mixed up in something big with this demon crap, and I don’t know what it is or where it’s headed, but I’m not gonna let you go through it alone.”

 

Sam nodded, blinking roughly. Cas knelt beside Sam, whispering to his soul. _Forgive yourself, Sam. Dean already has. He doesn’t want you to be stronger, or more powerful. He just wants his brother. You are enough just as you are._ Sam gasped, shaking with the effort to reign in his sobs.

 

Dean swung an arm around his brother’s bowed shoulders. “If it makes you feel any better, the funeral got postponed. Or canceled, maybe. I’m not sure how it’s gonna work.”

 

Cas’s attention snapped to Dean.

 

Sam wiped his eyes to give Dean an incredulous look. “What happened?”

 

“I was on my way there with a friend of mine,” Dean began. “His name was Cas.”

 

“Was?” Sam interrupted.

 

Dean’s face crumpled, but he held back tears. “He died... I spent the funeral at the hospital.”

 

“Oh my god. Dean, I’m so sorry.” Sam placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Tell me about him?”

 

Dean collected himself for a moment, and Cas urged him to speak to his brother, work through his sorrow. “He was awesome, Sam. Real smart with a side of smart-ass. You’d’ve liked him. He was an accountant for some multi-national firm that has an office downtown.”

 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t sound like your usual flavor. How’d you meet?”

 

“He actually lived in the apartment below us. We bumped into each other at Marv’s — a coffee place up the road — and he gave me a lecture about being less, um, enthusiastic during sex.” Cas cringed at the memory, though Dean reflected on it fondly.

 

“Oh man, I like this guy already,” Sam chuckled. “You needed that talking-to about ten years ago.”

 

Dean shoved his brother playfully. “Shut up, bitch.”

 

“Jerk,” Sam smiled.

 

Cas watched the call and response run a familiar path between their souls.

 

“Anyway,” Dean continued, “we ended up hitting it off and hanging out at Marv’s a couple times a week.” He glanced at Sam. “Cas was ace, asexual I mean, which was a new one for me, but we just got along so well...”

 

“I’m sorry I never got to meet him,” Sam said. “What happened? Was he sick?”

 

Dean shook his head, closed his eyes and turned his face away. “No.” Guilt squeezed his soul like an anaconda, pushing Castiel’s grace away. “It was my fault,” Dean choked out.

 

“No it wasn’t!” Cas shouted, as Sam said “I doubt that.”

 

“I knocked him into the street as we left Marv’s and a truck hit him.” Dean’s breath rattled. “He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me.”

 

Cas wanted to shake Dean so badly he actually tried to grab his shoulders, his hands passing straight through them.

 

“Did you do it on purpose?” Sam asked.

 

Dean balked. “Of course not!”

 

“Then it wasn’t your fault,” Sam assured him. “Sometimes bad shit happens to good people, and it’s not anyone’s fault. It just happens.” Cas could’ve kissed the younger Winchester for those words.  

 

Dean just shook his head again, staring at the floor. He cocked his head, swiveling off the bed to crouch beside the nightstand. He lifted Jess’s compass of the floor and stared at the needle spinning madly. The brothers shared a glance, then leapt into action.

 

Well, Dean leapt. Sam hobbled. Cas wished he could tell them it was his presence setting off Jessica’s alarm, that there were no demons nearby. Dean placed thin lines of salt at the windows and door to the apartment, while Sam placed the rosary from John’s journal in a jug of water and blessed it. Castiel extended his grace to the water as well. Sam’s blessing worked, but the angel’s made it much stronger.

 

“I’m gonna need to buy more salt,” Dean muttered, brushing past Cas on his way into the kitchen. “How’s the holy water coming?”

 

Sam shrugged. “I think it’ll work. I did the ritual the way dad wrote it, so...”

 

Dean made a face. “I guess we’re as ready as we’re going to be. You still got the shakes?”

 

Sam nodded. “I can tough it out,” he insisted. “The warning helps. Speaking of, did you ever text Jess?”

 

“Crap.” Dean threw his head back and dug his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll let her know what’s up, unless you want to...”

 

Sam shook his head. “I think we need to talk in person.”

 

“Probably a good idea.” Dean opened his mouth to continue, but a knock at the door cut him off. He looked at Sam, then the door, then back at Sam. “Do demons knock?” he whispered.

 

Sam shrugged, eyes wide.

 

Dean headed for the door cautiously, Cas on his heels. Glass of holy water in hand, Dean peered through the peep-hole, then cracked the door.

 

“Fred? What are you doing here?”

 

Castiel’s grace recoiled. Fred was possessed by a demon far more powerful than Ruby. Powerful enough that he glanced toward Cas and smirked.

 

“Heya, Dean,” he greeted. “I can come back later if you got company.”

 

Dean glanced at Sam _— don’t let him in!_ Cas pressed — then swung the door open all the way. “Nah, that’s okay. Fred, this is my brother, Sam. Sam, Fred.”

 

Fred mimed tipping his hat to Sam, then glanced at the thin line of salt across the doorway. “Spill something?”

 

Dean scrambled for an explanation. “It’s supposed to be good luck,” he stammered. “My place got broken into last night, so I figured it couldn’t hurt.” He scuffed the salt off to the side with one foot — _Dean, no!_ Cas yelled — and gestured for Fred to come inside. “Sorry about the mess.”

 

“I don’t judge,” the demon said, and stepped across the threshold.

 

“So, what’s with the house call?” Dean asked, closing the door behind them.

 

_Dean, please listen! Get away from him!_

 

Fred smiled again, eyeing Sam. “Just wondering if you ever found your dad’s old gun. My buyer’s getting ansty.”

 

Cas wrapped his fingers and his grace around Dean’s soul and _yanked_ , frantic. Dean frowned and took a step back, closer to Sam. “Buyer? I told you, man, I don’t have the gun. I don’t even know if there _is_ a gun.”

 

“Really?” The demon moved forward, cornering the boys in the kitchen. “Because the way you’ve been poring over that journal every shift makes me think daddy left you a little riddle to solve, a treasure hunt.”

 

 _He’s a demon! He’ll kill you for that gun!_ Cas shouted. Dean licked his lips, shifted his weight, and hurled the holy water at Fred.

 

The demon hissed when the water hit his face, wisps of smoke rising from his skin.

 

“Oh god,” Sam whispered.

 

“Guess again.” The demon opened his yellow eyes and glared. “Holy water? That stings.”

 

Dean braced himself on the counter. “Yellow Eyes.”

 

The demon smirked. “Putting it together now, boy? It’s me. I killed dear old daddy, but before I rearranged his insides he told me the gun was safe, and that if I came after his boys I’d be sorry.” He buffed his fingernails on his chest. “Sounds to me like John sent the Colt to his eldest.”

 

 _You will not touch them_ , Castiel hissed. The demon winked at him, then lunged across the counter and brutally slammed Dean’s head against the stone. Sam dumped the rest of the holy water on it, but the demon dodged out of range.

 

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” it teased, dragging Dean’s limp body toward the door. “I won’t kill your brother, not right away. There’s information in that dense noggin of his that I need.”

 

Sam raised his right hand, face contorted in concentration.

 

The demon coughed once, then wagged a finger at Sam. “You haven’t been keeping up with your regimen, boy. But I respect the effort, kid. Way to be innovative. It’s that go-getter attitude that has me rooting for you.”

 

Sam fell to his knees.

 

 _Get help,_ Cas urged him. _Call Jess._ Then he flew, following after Dean.

 

***

 

Dean opened his eyes to red-tinged shadows. He blinked and a bout of nausea stopped his breath, but his fuzzy vision slowly came into focus. He was laying on his back, strapped to a table of some kind. He tensed, testing his bonds, but the knots held tight.

 

The room around him was vast, and empty. A warehouse of some kind. All these empty warehouses, the economy must really be going down the toilet. The narrow, high windows were covered in translucent paper, the dim light painting everything red. He swallowed, the metallic taste of blood filling his dry mouth.

 

Behind his head, outside his field of vision, a lock clanged, a hinge squealed, and footsteps drew near. Breathing through his nose to keep from panicking, Dean smelled rotten eggs.

 

“Looks who’s finally awake,” Fred’s voice exclaimed, creepily jovial. “You kept me waiting. Daddy’s little girl can’t take a bump on the head.”

 

“Screw you,” Dean retorted, hoarse.

 

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the demon tutted. “You’re going to have to learn some manners if we’re going to be working together.”

 

“I’m never working with you, you freak!” Dean spat.

 

The demon spread his arms wide, turning in a slow circle. “We’ve been working together for months, Deano. I even saved your life.” He dropped his arms and leaned in close, foul breath wafting across Dean’s cheek. “‘Course, I had to dump that old broad to get to you in time. I hope you felt brave, running into the fire to save no one.” He pulled back, let his words sink in. “Or do you just hate yourself so much you want to burn?”

 

Dean felt his lip tremble. “Millie? You killed her?”

 

“No, _you_ did, by playing at hero instead of getting out when I told you to.”

 

Dean swallowed, not trusting his voice. He’d promised Millie she’d be safe. One more added to the pile of broken promises he’d made to people he couldn’t save.

 

“So don’t make the same mistake twice, boy. Do as I say and nobody dies. Tell me where that gun is.”

 

Dean glared.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

Dean spat at it. The demon sighed, pretending to be put-upon. “Well then, let’s get started.”

 

It tore into him, ripping, slicing, battering. Dean lost track of time. Every time he lost consciousness, he woke to the empty room. Sometimes he was alone for only moments, other times he was sure it had been days since he’d seen another soul. Eventually, though, each stretch of solitude was broken by the clanging lock and squeaking door announcing the demon’s arrival.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

The question rang through Dean’s whole being. The only words he heard, spoken once per day. When he clamped his lips tight, or spat bloody saliva in the demon’s face, it marked the time when the demon did something to Dean that made him black out within a few minutes and _oh god he wished it didn’t take that long to pass out_.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

Pain, cold, and the stink of sulphur.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

 _Don’t let me break,_ Dean prayed, hoping he might be strong enough to die without betraying his family.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

The door screeched. The demon paused. Dean breathed. This was different.

 

Footsteps, lighter than Fred’s. “Sorry to interrupt your playtime, Azazel, but some of us want to move things along.” Dean recognized that voice. Where had he heard this woman before? “I’m going after Sam.”

 

At the sound of his brother’s name, Dean surged against his bonds, drawing blood from his already-raw skin.

 

The demon, Azazel, twirled his knife. “You already failed to do your job with him, Ruby. Why should I give you a second chance?”

 

Ruby. That’s where Dean knew the voice from. This was the bitch that strung his brother out on blood and played him like a fiddle.

 

“Because I take orders from Lilith, not you,” Ruby spat.

 

Azazel stepped out of Dean’s view, and the sounds of a struggle echoed off the distant walls. A grunt, a curse, a woman’s gasp. A sound like a fire dying, doused with water.

 

Footsteps. Dean closed his eyes. Whoever won the fight, it would be bad for him.

 

“Bitch should have known better than to show her face,” Azazel’s voice came from above Dean’s head. “I don’t keep damaged goods around.”

 

Dean squeezed his hands into fists, bracing himself.

 

“Now, where were we?”

 

For a long time, Dean screamed, but kept his words inside. He guessed it’d been at least three days before he broke, judging from how his body cried out for water and food.

 

Azazel was breaking fingers today, the digits already stinging and slippery with blood from dozens of small cuts. “Where’s the Colt?”

 

“I don’t know,” Dean choked, tears following well-worn salt tracks down his temples. “Please stop. I don’t know where it is.”

 

Crack. Dean screamed.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

“I don’t know!” Dean yelled, his shout hollow, voice raspy with overuse.

 

Crack. Dean grit his teeth against the throbbing pain that followed the sharp snap of agony.

 

“Where’s the Colt?”

 

Dean blinked at the ceiling, vision fading in and out. “I don’t know. Dad left me a clue in his journal, a code, but I couldn’t figure it out.” Not the man his father wanted him to be. Not surprising. Dean never lived up to people’s expectations.

 

Azazel twisted one of Dean’s unbroken fingers, bending the bone to the point just before snapping. “And where’s the journal, sonny?”

 

Dean swallowed, working moisture into his throat. “My locker, at the station,” he lied, staring down those awful yellow eyes.

 

Azazel grabbed Dean’s face, forcing him to look at him. “I’m proud of you, kid,” he sneered. Dean held his breath as the demon leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “Once I get my hands on that gun, I’ll have everything I need to open a gate down to the Pit. Gonna be a helluva reunion up here, and guess who’s gonna lead the charge, dancing on graves? Dear little Sammy. With you gone, he’ll be so desperate for revenge he’ll do exactly what we want him to.” The demon shifted, bringing them nose to nose, eye to eye. “You get to die knowing you just condemned baby brother and the whole damn world to hell. Atta boy.”

 

With a wink of one yellow eye, the demon disappeared from Dean’s view. A few moments later, he heard a splash, the sound of a flicking lighter, and the faint whoosh of kerosine catching fire.

 

“See you in Hell, Dean,” Azazel called. “I’m looking forward to introducing you to all my friends.”

 

The door clanged shut. The lock clicked. Dean heard the cracking and popping of wood catching fire. He pulled against his bonds, but all that did was make him nearly pass out from the pain. Defeated, Dean let his head thud back against the table.

 

The crackling became a roar as the walls went up. Dean knew a fire like this could consume the empty old building in a matter of minutes, especially with the help of the kerosine. He took a breath, coughing from the smoke, and tried to slip his wrists out of the ropes holding him down.

 

He sawed back and forth, back and forth, gritting his teeth and blinking away tears of pain. He turned his face away from an explosion above him, broken glass crashing against the concrete floor. The air up by the ceiling was hot enough to shatter the windows already.

 

 _I’m going to die,_ Dean realized, a detached calm filling him. He closed his eyes, coughing again. It was getting hard to see, anyway, smoke stinging his eyes. At least his last act had been to buy Sam and Jess some time. Sam was smart enough to have taken off with Dad’s journal, and with Jess’s uncle they might have a fighting chance to stop... well, Armageddon. Heh, maybe his life mattered, after all.

 

Dean’s huff of laughter morphed into hacking, his lungs desperate for clean air. He couldn’t breathe, the air too thick with smoke and too light on oxygen. Dizziness tilted his world, even through the darkness of his closed eyelids.

 

“Please, watch out for Sam,” Dean whispered, praying to a god he barely believed in, hoping this final good deed was worth enough to keep his brother safe.

 

“Only if you’re there to help me.” The gravel voice tugged Dean back toward consciousness. Sure he was hallucinating, he forced his eyes open.

 

Cas stood over him, blue eyes bright against the smoke-filled ceiling.

  
Dean gasped, trying to pull air into his lungs. “Oh. It’s you.” Darkness filled his vision, but before he lost all sense, Dean felt his limbs fall free of their bonds, his weight lifted up off the table in steady arms, and the disorienting, impossible sensation of flying.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Three: Fight Fire With Fire

Dean woke and fell back asleep a few times before he finally became conscious enough to process what was happening around him. The other times, Castiel simply reached out a reassuring hand and eased his friend’s eyes shut again, encouraging him to sleep and heal. Castiel knew he could heal all of Dean’s — far too many — wounds in an instant, but he was going to be in enough trouble with Zachariah already, so he refrained from miracle-working. Instead, he touched Dean as often as possible, sending him grace, energy to help his body heal itself. 

 

When Dean’s green eyes finally blinked open with conscious thought behind them, Cas leaned over the hospital bed and smiled down at his friend. “Hello, Dean.”

 

“Hey.” Dean slowly eyed him up and down, taking in every detail: beige trenchcoat, blue tie, wrinkled white shirt, black jacket and matching slacks, back up to five o’clock shadow and cerulean eyes. “Am I dead?”

 

Cas smiled again and shook his head. “Not on my watch.”

 

“But I saw you die. You’re dead,” Dean declared, matter-of-fact.

 

Cas canted his head to the side, acknowledging without agreeing. “I was, but I’m not anymore. Now I’m your guardian.”

 

Dean frowned. “The hell does that mean?” 

 

“I guess you could say I got a promotion. You’re looking at Heaven’s newest guardian angel.” Cas spread his arms in a sarcastic “ta-da!” 

 

Dean stared. “Guardian angel,” he repeated, voice low and even.

 

Cas nodded again, waiting for Dean to adjust. He could see him, so at least some part of his soul was ready to accept aid. 

 

“Bang up job,” Dean growled. “Where the hell were you when that  _ thing _ was—?!” He broke off, coughing as his voice gave out. 

 

“I was there.” Cas held a nearby cup of water for Dean, who tightened his lips and glared. So stubborn. “Watching him do that to you wrecked me, Dean.” He held Dean’s gaze and waited. The man finally relented and sucked water up through the bent straw. When he finished, Cas placed the plastic cup on the bedside table. Not looking at the charge, his friend, whom he’d failed, he found the courage to finish. “I tried to help you, but I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t keep that demon away from you.”

 

He looked back at Dean, imploring him to understand, to forgive. “I almost tore myself apart trying to help you. I can’t break fundamental laws of creation, but I almost destroyed myself trying.”

 

Dean blinked quickly, turning his head away. The sting of rejection ripped through Castiel’s grace. He turned to move away from the bed, but Dean’s weak grasp on his wrist stopped him. 

 

“I know you must’ve tried, Cas,” Dean said. “Sorry I’m such an ass.”

 

Cas turned his wrist and clasped Dean’s hand. “No need. I knew that going into this assignment.” He smiled.

 

Dean huffed. “So. Angel, huh? That’s... a big pill to swallow.”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

“Any cool powers I should know about?” 

 

Cas cocked his head to the side, taking mental inventory. “Several. When I need to know how to do something, I just know. ‘Intrinsic knowledge,’ it’s called.” 

 

“Huh,” Dean mused. “That’d be handy to have. What have you used the most?” 

 

Cas contemplated. “If you count invisibility as a power, then that has been the most used by far.”

 

“Uh, yeah it counts as a power!” Dean exclaimed. “Why wouldn’t it?”

 

“Because I don’t choose it,” Cas said, somber. Dean’s confused face prompted him to continue. “It’s why you couldn’t see me when I first returned, the night Jessica called you about Sam.” Dean looked like he wanted to interrupt at that revelation, but he held his peace. “A guardian can’t be seen or heard by any human until their charge recognizes their worthiness.” Dean’s face fell, and Cas could see him shoulder the guilt, heard his thought  _ it’s my fault Cas couldn’t help sooner _ . But in true Dean fashion, he covered it with humor.

 

"Only true believers can see you?” Dean scoffed. “What are you, a unicorn? Do you shoot rainbows outta your ass?" 

 

Cas returned in kind, deadpanned "No. I am an Angel of the Lord." Dean could only handle so much heavy emotion in one sitting.

 

Dean snorted. “I can practically hear the capital letters.” 

 

Cas smiled and settled into the chair beside the bed. Dean’s gaze wandered the room, resting on a sign near the door bearing a “Sioux Falls General” label. 

 

“Cas, where are we?”

 

“Sioux Falls, South Dakota.” At Dean’s flummoxed expression, he continued. “Jessica’s uncle lives just outside of town. He’s back in Junction City searching for you, but said she could hole up at his house. The property is heavily warded. She and Sam are safe there.”

 

They sat in silence for several minutes, Dean fighting drowsiness caused by the medicine dripping into his body from his IV. Cas watched him slowly succumbing to sleep, despite his efforts. 

 

“Sleep, Dean. It will help you heal, and the faster you get well, the faster we can rejoin Sam and Jessica.”

 

Dean grunted. “Just missed you, man. Don’t want you disappearing on me again.”

 

“I can’t,” Cas informed him, discovering the knowledge for himself. “Now that you can see me, you’ll always see me when I’m near. It’s a failsafe for human free will. If you ever tell me to leave, you’ll know I’ve listened.”

 

The thought of Dean ordering him away pained something deep inside Castiel, deeper than his grace even. He wondered, fleetingly, if it was his human soul hiding somewhere in the depths of his being. 

 

“‘M not gonna tell you t’leave,” Dean mumbled, eyes drifting shut. “Need you.”

 

Cas laid a hand on Dean’s forehead, the warmth of his grace spreading from his palm into the man’s fatigued body. “Rest, Dean.”

 

***

 

Sam sipped at his black coffee and wished, for the third time in as many minutes, that Jess’s uncle had some cream or sugar in his house. He turned back to his father’s journal, the note left for Dean turning Sam’s stomach more than his bitter dose of caffeine. 

 

_ Watch out for Sam. _

 

What had Dad known? Why had he only warned Dean? Why hadn’t Dad said anything to  _ Sam _ ? 

 

He took a stinging gulp of coffee and grimaced. 

 

“That’s what you get for needing coffee to wake up in the morning,” Jess’s perky voice chimed from the doorway. 

 

Sam’s head snapped up.  

 

Jess strode into the kitchen, messy curls still damp from the shower. Sam’s fingers ached to run through them again. He cleared his throat. “You never need caffeine to wake up, no matter how screwed up your sleep schedule is. You sure you’re human?”

 

The joke fell flat and an awkward silence filled the cluttered kitchen. Jess popped a frozen pizza in the oven — supreme, Sam noted, her favorite — and took pity him by changing the subject. 

 

“Find any new clues in your dad’s journal?”

 

Sam shook his head. “The man writes like friggin’ Yoda. I feel like I’m reading _The Da Vinci Code_ with more cryptic prose.”

 

Jess rolled her eyes. “That book was so stupid. Secret societies don’t go around laying clues in artwork for people to stumble across.” 

 

“I guess you’d know,” Sam said, voice soft. 

 

Jess went still for a moment, then sighed and came over to sit beside Sam at the table. She stalled, resting her elbows on the table and chewing on her bottom lip. “Look, I know you’re probably upset with me for not telling you about my family, but isn’t that pot calling kettle?”

 

Sam bristled, but Jess cut him off with a hand on his forearm. “I’m not trying to assign blame. I just...” She looked into the living room at the piles of books and papers, one of the greatest archives of supernatural knowledge in the northern hemisphere, with more locked in a bunker below the house. Sam got goosebumps when she gave him the grand tour three days ago. 

 

Jess cleared her throat. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about Ruby, or that you found out your dad was a hunter. I know how hard it can be to open that door.”

 

Sam nodded. “Yeah. I guess we have more in common than we thought.” 

 

Jess huffed. “Good segway.” Sam frowned, confused. Jess slid her hand from his forearm to his hand and continued. “I was going to say, with what we know about each other now, this feels more serious than it did before.”

 

Sam swallowed, pulled his hand back. “It was always serious for me.”

 

Jess nodded and sat back in her chair. “I guessed. Sorry we weren’t on the same page.”

 

“Are we now?”

 

Jess shook her head. “I don’t know.” She rested her forehead against the heels of her hands, frizzing hair shielding her face. “I’m scared of this, Sam,” she admitted, hoarse. “More than of the demons, crazy enough. Something serious between us, it’s either going to be fantastic or catastrophic, and we’re not far enough into it yet to see.”

 

Sam reached out and took her hands, waited for her to look him in the eyes again. “I think part of the fun is not knowing how it’ll turn out,” he tried. “But,” he licked his lips. “The timing could be a problem, what with demons on our ass and all.” Jess laughed aloud, and Sam internally fist-bumped that he could still make her laugh. “What I’m trying to say is, I think we should just leave it be for now. Use the time to get to know each other again, and if we manage to get through this and neither of us dies, maybe we pick up where we left off?”

 

Jess gave him a slow smile, nodding once. “I’d like that.”

 

They leaned toward one another, drawn like magnets.

 

A gust of wind blew a loose piece of paper into Jess’s face. With the sound of a sheet on a clothesline snapping in the breeze, Dean appeared out of nowhere, one arm slung over the shoulder of a dark-haired, trenchcoat-wearing man. Dean clutched the coat for support, bowed legs wobbly. 

 

Mouths open, eyes wide, Sam and Jess stared. 

 

Dean took a shaky breath. “Don’t ever do that to me again unless I will literally die otherwise,” he berated the other man. “That was  _ not fun _ .”

 

“Dean!” Sam rocketed toward his brother, but Jess swept in front of him, pushing him back. She spun toward the newcomers, both hands raised in front of her, a small bag clutched in her fists. 

 

“What are you?” she demanded, glaring at Cas.

 

“Whoa, whoa! Jess, it’s okay,” Dean stepped in front of his friend. “This is Cas. He’s...” Dean paused, eyes darting from Jess, to Sam, and back to Cas. “Dude, can they see you?” he whispered. 

 

Sam muscled Jess backward so they stood side-by-side. “Yes,” he answered. “Dean, what’s going on?”

 

Dean glanced at Cas again. “Can I tell them?”

 

Cas raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, can you?”

 

“Dean, what is going on? Tell me you’re okay!” Sam begged. 

 

His brother grinned. “Sammy, Jess, meet Cas, or I guess  _ Castiel _ now, my dead best friend and very own guardian angel.” 

 

Stunned silence, broken by Jess. “Bullshit,” she spat, lifting her arms again. “Angels aren’t real.”

 

Castiel raised his chin. “Just because you haven’t studied, catalogued, and dissected something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, Jessica Moore.”

 

Her hands stayed steady. “Prove it.”

 

Castiel drew in a breath and bowed his head. Lightening flashed and the shadows of great wings darkened the entire back wall of the room. 

 

Dean’s jaw dropped. Sam gulped. Jess lowered her hands, leaning slightly into Sam’s side. He put one arm around her shoulders, instinctively offering support. 

 

The angel opened his eyes and leveled them at Jess. “Is that sufficient evidence?”

 

Jess nodded. “I’ve never even read about anything that could do that. Not in real life, anyway.” She swallowed. “So, you rescued Dean from that demon?”

 

“Yeah, he was a total badass,” Dean chimed in. “Even patched me most of the way up when we left the hospital.” He scratched the back of his head with one hand. “Just don’t tell anybody the fireman had to get saved from a burning building, okay? I’d never live it down.” 

 

Jess edged around Cas and Dean, heading for the stairs. “I’ll let you three, um... catch up. I’m gonna go call Uncle Bobby and tell him to get his ass back here.” She glanced at the angel. “Butt, I mean. Sorry...” She jogged out of sight.

 

Sam watched her go, then looked back at his brother. His whole, healthy, not-killed-by-demons brother. In one motion, he surged forward and wrapped his arms around Dean, who returned the crushing embrace with equal enthusiasm. Sam fisted a hand in Dean’s jacket, holding tight and pretending for an instant he’d never have to let go. 

 

Dean let him pull away first. Blinking rapidly, Sam cleared his throat and turned to Castiel, right hand outstretched. “Castiel, it’s nice to meet you. When you were alive, you made my brother really happy. Thank you for saving him.”

 

Cas hesitated a moment, then shook Sam’s hand firmly. “You’re welcome.”

 

Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs. “Don’t get all mushy on me, Sammy.”

 

Rubbing his side, Sam rolled his eyes. “I was being serious, Dean.” He glanced the Castiel again. “I’m just trying to figure out why you got a guardian angel.”  _ Why not me? I’m the one with training and powers. _ Sam clenched a fist and forced the thoughts, whispers in Ruby’s voice, from his head. It would take a long time to fully banish her from his mind.

 

Dean frowned. “Yeah, Cas. That doesn’t really make sense, now that I think about it. I’m just a regular guy. Why’d you get assigned to me?”

 

Cas tilted his head, eyes in the middle distance. “I wasn’t told,” he finally confessed. “But I suspect it was due at least in part to the foundation of friendship Dean and I had already established. Also, assigning me to one of you in effect will protect both of you.” He paused, searching, then nodded. “I do know for sure part of my assignment was to help Dean get past his deep-seated self-loathing and guilt issues, and I seem to be making good progress there.”

 

Dean made a face. “I don’t have ‘deep-seated self-loathing and guilt issues’.” Sam snorted, both at the bald-faced lie and how Dean used his fingers to make quotation marks.

 

“You just thought:  _ It’s my fault Sam ended up that far gone. If I’d been there for him I could’ve stopped it _ ,” Castiel intoned.

 

Dean’s eyebrows met his hairline. “You can read people’s minds?”

 

“Only yours.” Cas tilted his head, considering. “And it’s not reading so much as touching.”

 

Dean looked like someone just told him he’d accidentally eaten a veggie burger. “Quit groping my brain!”

 

Sam couldn’t hold in his laugh.

 

“It’s not funny, Sam!”

 

“I can’t keep from feeling everything,” Cas apologized. “But I will endeavor to—” He cut off, and the brothers turned to see why. 

 

Castiel stood ramrod straight, eyes wide. Trembling, he whispered “I have to go” and disappeared in a rush of wind.

 

Dean blinked twice, searching the room. “Cas?” he called. 

 

Sam spun in a slow circle. “I think he’s gone, Dean.”

 

“Cas!” Dean yelled. “You promised me you’d stick around, so get your ass back down here!”

 

Hearing alarm in his brother’s voice, Sam reached out to reassure. “He probably just needs to go save someone else quick, or get a new battery or something,” he tried. 

 

Dean wasn’t convinced. 

 

“Look,” Sam continued, “we’re safe here. So, let’s just wait for Cas to get back and in the meantime we can put our heads together and figure out where Dad hid that damn gun.”

 

Dean closed his eyes and inhaled deep. “Yeah I guess you’re right.” He sniffed again. “Is something burning?” 

 

Half an hour later, Sam and Dean had finished off all but one slice of Jess’s — slightly burnt — supreme pizza. 

 

She strode into the kitchen, glanced at their demolition, and huffed. “Nice. Thanks guys.” She snatched the final piece off the grease-stained cardboard circle and chewed off a bite. 

 

“So,” she began, covering her mouth as she ate, “you guys have any leads on Colt yet?”

 

Sam shook his head and Dean grunted. 

 

“Too bad.” Jess pulled a small black case out of the back pocket of her jeans and tossed it onto the table. “You’re gonna need more than one bullet for it if you ever do find it.” 

 

Dean opened the case, revealing 10 silver-cased bullets etched with runes. “I thought there was only one left.”

 

“That John Winchester knew about.” Jess quirked a brow. “Uncle Bobby told me where his stash was. He’s done a lot of research on that gun, and eventually worked out how to forge his own bullets for it.” 

 

“Wow, this is amazing,” Sam said, a smidgen of hope stirring in his chest. “Gives us a much better shot at not dying when Azazel shows up again.”

 

“Azazel?”

 

“The yellow-eyed bastard who had me,” Dean grunted. He ran both hands through his hair. “Honestly, at this point I’m kind of hoping we never find the damn gun. At least that way the son of a bitch won’t get his hands on it.”

 

Jess slid into the chair across from them. “Still, a weapon like that could save a lot of lives.”

 

“Not if it ends the world,” Dean returned.

 

Sam and Jess shared a glance. “Well, that was ominous,” he said.

 

Dean signed. “Before he left me to burn to a crisp, Azazel told me he plans on using the Colt to open a door to hell. It’s some kind of key.”

 

“A Devil’s Gate?” Jess whispered.

 

Dean nodded. “Sounds about right, yeah.”

 

“Shit.” 

 

Sam sighed. “I’m guessing that’s not a good thing.”

 

Jess shook her head, eyes faraway. “A Devil’s Gate is a damn door to Hell. Open one and hundreds, thousands of demons could come pouring out to ravage the earth. My parents died stopping one from being opened in Wyoming.”

 

Sam bowed his head, then rested a hand on Jess’s. “Sorry.”

 

She shrugged one shoulder. “It was a long time ago.” Her eyes were wet. Sam squeezed her hand.

 

Dean forced a breath through his mouth. “So, what’s the plan then? Do we have to assume if we don’t find the Colt, eventually the demons will?”

 

Jess nodded. “They’ll never stop. Even if it take them years, decades, eventually they’ll find it.”

 

“So we need to find it first,” Sam concluded. 

 

“ _ You  _ need to find it first,” Jess corrected. “I’m on the first flight back to Cali.”

 

The cold fist of betrayal made its home deep in Sam’s gut. He wished he wasn’t so familiar with it. “You’re leaving?”

 

She nodded. “I’m going back to Moore family HQ and telling everybody to spread the word and arm up. We’ve got a fight coming our way.”

 

Sam smiled, relieved and strangely proud. 

 

Dean chuckled. 

 

“What’s so funny?” Jess asked. 

 

Dean shook his head, then relented at their persistent, expectant stares. 

 

“I just... Arm up for Armageddon. We could make a killing selling t-shirts.”

 

Sam gave his brother his “I can’t believe you just made that joke we can’t possibly be related” look. 

 

Jess rolled her eyes. “Get cracking, boys. You’ve got a gun to find.”

 

***

 

Six hours, three pots of coffee, and two more frozen pizzas later, Dean was ready to chuck his dad’s journal in a river and be done with it. 

 

_ I hid it, but you’ll be able to find it if you need to. _ Yeah, right. Apparently he wasn’t as smart as Dad thought. 

 

And Cas was still MIA.

 

Dean slapped the table in frustration. 

 

“Don’t spill my coffee,” Sam said evenly. He glanced up at Dean. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

“I’ve been staring at this letter for almost two weeks, Sam. If I could figure it out, I would’ve already.”

 

Sam pursed his lips and twirled his pen (thinks best with a pen in hand, the nerd). “Maybe we’re coming at this from the wrong angle.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“What if the letter isn’t the only thing we need in order to find the gun? What else did Dad leave you?”

 

Dean thought back. “The journal, obviously. The letter was inside. Um... he had a knife, but the cops kept that, along with the fake IDs.” Dean racked his brain. “There was a rosary, and I think that was it.” 

 

“Hmm...” Sam made a face. “That’s not a lot to go on.”

 

“I don’t know,” Dean said, looking down at the different combinations of the numbers and letters at the bottom of John’s note that he’d scribbled on scrap paper. “I think you’re onto something. What if the jumble of letters at the bottom of the note isn’t a code?”

 

“What if it’s the  _ key _ ?” Sam finished. “A book cipher.” Again,  _ nerd _ .

 

Sam jumped up from the table and rushed into the den. He returned a minute later, a large book in his hands. He plopped it down in front of them. 

 

Dean raised a questioning eyebrow. “The Bible?”

 

Sam nodded. “The King James is the most commonly used book for this type of code. See how the code in Dad’s note is in sets of three? Number, letter, number? You match up the page in the book—” Sam pointed at the first number — “the first letter of the first word in one of the paragraphs on that page—” he pointed to the letter — “and then count the words in the paragraph until you get to the last number.” 

 

“Huh,” Dean mused. “Well, let’s give it a go.” 

 

Working in tandem, it only took them 10 minutes to decode the message. Sam read it out loud. “Remnant, combat, thou, Nebuchadnezzar, kindling.”

 

Dean rubbed his forehead with one hand. “God I hope we did this wrong, because that clue makes even less sense than this one.”

 

Sam shook his head and snapped the bible closed. “We must have the wrong book. What other text would Dad have used as the source, though? There aren’t many other books that have a giant vocabulary and everybody has easy access to the same edition.”

 

Dean pursed his lips, flipping back through the journal for any mention of a book. He stopped. “Huh.” 

 

“What?”

 

“I did think it was a little anal of Dad to number the pages in his journal.” Dean pointed at the tiny, hand-written numbers at the bottom of each page.

 

“Brilliant!” Sam cheered. 

 

They used the cipher on the journal, and again, Sam read aloud the decoded text. “Castle, hill, four, two, dogs.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense either.”

 

But something itched at the back of Dean’s brain. He rummaged through the front pocket of the journal and pulled out the wrinkled business cards. He flipped past three before finding the one he was searching for.

  
Dean grinned and snapped his fingers. “I know where Colt’s gun is.”


	9. Chapter 8

“You dissapointed me, Castiel.” Zachariah’s unctuous voice grated on ears Cas didn’t really need in order to hear. 

 

“I’m sorry, Zachariah. It won’t happen again,” he greeted, forcing his voice into a respectful tone. His superior saw straight through it.

 

“Don’t lie to me, you pissant little guardian,” he snapped. “You’re not sorry. That’s not regret I see swirling around under your skin.” 

 

Cas stayed still. He resolved to accept whatever punishment Zachariah dolled out and return to Dean as soon as possible.

 

Zachariah shook his head. “You’ve gotten too close to the human in your charge, Castiel. And you disobeyed a direct order, several times, because of it. Do you know how we deal with this kind of thing in Heaven, or at least the parts I’m in charge of?” He paused, but Cas kept his peace, denying him the satisfaction.

 

Zachariah sneered. “Re-education.”

 

His lips twisted into a snarl, and he snapped his fingers.

 

Ice so cold it burned speared through Castiel’s entire being, shards of pure dark and cold tearing through his grace. Screaming without a voice, Cas curled in on himself, trying to escape or protect himself, he wasn’t sure which. 

 

It didn’t stop. The pain surged through him, rising every time Cas thought he’d grown used to it. He just wanted it to stop.  _ Please, God make it stop _ — 

 

“It won’t stop, Castiel.” Zachariah soothed. “Not until you’ve forgotten your reason for disobeying.”

 

Cas shuddered in his depths.

 

“You’ll be free of pain when you forget you care about Dean Winchester.”

 

***

 

Castle Storage, located at 42 Rover Hill, Pittsford, New York. One of several storage units John Winchester had apparently rented and paid for in advance. Luckily the account was still good when Dean and Sam showed up to check on it. Sam lied smoothly to the attendant behind the counter, explaining they were John Winchester’s sons and he’d passed away (with legit IDs and a death certificate to prove it) and just wanted a few minutes alone with their father’s belongings. “To say—”  _ sniff  _ “—goodbye,” Sam finished, pleading eyes wide and glassy. Dean was kind of proud of his baby brother’s shady skills. Sammy’d done a lot of growing up in the years since Dean had seen him. Dean wasn’t sure he like it, even though he knew he should. 

 

Shaking his head, Dean watched the teenage attendant — his nametag read “Steve” — jiggle and jerk the lock, the master key stuck inside. Dean glanced around, half-expecting demons to appear out of the surrounding night. After an eternity, the lock clicked. 

 

“Okay guys,” Steve said. “Don’t break anything, and snap the lock shut when you’re done. Sorry about your old man.”

 

Sam and Dean nodded at him, and he shuffled away toward the office building. The brothers shared a glance, bent and pulled up the garage door together.

 

John Winchester’s storage locker was dark, dusty, and filled to the brim with (what appeared to be) junk. 

 

Dean pulled a face. “It looks like an 85-year-old’s garage in here.” 

 

“Except for the booby-traps.” Sam pointed toward the floor, where a tripwire glinted faintly. Dean followed it to the wall, wear the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun stared back at him, camouflaged behind boxes of picture frames and trophies.

 

“Right.” Dean took an exaggerated step over the wire, careful not to set off the trap. The shelving units were arranged to block the view of most of the room, and as he edged around the corner, Dean discovered why. 

 

Where the immediately visible front of the room had been chaotic, the back half was meticulously organized. Neatly stacked boxes, labels front, covered the shelves against the rear wall. The boxes were metal, wooden, even a one or two that looked like clay, every single one covered with sigils and locked tight. 

 

And in the center of the room, a circle of red paint — Dean hoped it was paint — ringed the five points of an inverted star, other symbols squiggled in the places inbetween and what looked like a scorpion drawn in the center. 

 

“It’s a Devil’s Trap,” Sam said softly. “Traps demons inside, helps protect humans if they’re inside it.”

 

Dean eyed his brother’s strained face. 

 

“I learned it from Ruby,” Sam confessed. 

 

Dean winced in sympathy. Guilt like that was a bitch. “So which one of these crazy-ass lookin’ boxes you think Dad stashed the gun in?” he asked, changing the subject.

 

Sam let out a giant breath. “No idea, and I don’t really want to open one if we don’t know what’s inside. It looks like dad kept a lot of nasty crap here.”

 

Dean grunted his agreement. He stepped forward, bent at the waist, peering along the shelves. 

 

“What are you doing, Dean?”

 

“Lookin’ for clues,” Dean retorted. “What’s it look like?”

 

Sam chuckled. “Guess we’re the Hardy Boys, then.” He joined Dean’s careful search, starting on the opposite side of the room. 

 

They stood an arm’s length apart when Sam broke the silence. “Hey, I think I got something.”

 

Dean stepped closer and peered around Sam’s shoulder. Sure enough, the small box on the bottom shelf in front of Sam had a series of small numbers and letters scribbled on the lid. The same code as the note in John’s journal. 

 

Dean clapped Sam on the back to get him moving. Sam squatted and lifted the box gingerly, as if it weighed more than a small leather box could. 

 

The brothers shared a glance. Dean nodded, and Sam took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing.”

 

Sam flipped the latch on the case with his thumb and eased it open. On a bed of stained gray velvet lay the legendary gun. A tiny pentagram carved into the grip, ornate vines etched into the base, and three words inscribed on the barrel.

 

“Non timebo mala,” Dean read, tossing Sam a questioning glance.

 

“I will fear no evil,” Sam answered. 

 

“Well, that’s just terrible advice,” Azazel drawled from the other side of the shelving unit. 

 

Sam snapped the box shut, his knuckles going white. “Stay inside the devil’s trap,” he hissed at Dean. 

 

Azazel stepped into view, yellow eyes gleaming under the unit’s florescent lights. Dean swallowed. They were cornered. 

 

“I knew you boys would lead me to the gun eventually,” the demon crowed. “Way to go, champs. Solid work.” 

 

Dean glared, lip curling. Sam tensed beside him. 

  
The demon stopped, toes just shy of touching the outer line of trap on the floor. “Time to hand over the gun, boys. You got nowhere to go.”


	10. Chapter 9

“You’re never getting this gun, you son of a bitch!” Dean growled, but Sam heard the tremor in his voice. 

 

Azazel grinned. “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

 

“Oh great, a demon deal,” Dean scoffed. “I bet that’d turn out great for us.” Dean’s familiar bluster comforted Sam enough to step beside his brother, well inside the devil’s trap. Shoulder to shoulder, they faced the yellow-eyed demon that killed their parents.

 

“Boys shouldn’t play with daddy’s guns,” Azazel sneered. “Might get hurt.” He spread his fingers, and Dean bowed over, choking. Blood dripped from his mouth through his cry of pain. 

 

Sam wrapped his free arm around Dean’s shoulders, supporting him. “How are you doing this?” he yelled at the demon. “Stop it!”

 

Azazel chuckled. “Boy, that bitch really had you cold. It’s called a ‘devil’s trap’ genius. It doesn’t do anything to me unless I’m inside it.” He waved a hand, and Dean gasped in breath like a drowning man. “Unfortunately, I can’t touch you or that warded box,” he pointed at Sam and the Colt in turn. “I know, red tape’ll drive you nuts, but them’s the rules.”

 

He grinned again, teeth glinting. “But nothing’s keeping me from giving Dean a long,  _ very  _ painful death. And he knows how much pain I can dole out, don’t you, Deano?” 

 

“Shut up,” Dean hissed, still bent, both arms holding his chest. The demon chuckled, then spread his fingers again. Dean screamed and fell to one knee, struggling to breathe as blood darkened the front of his shirt. 

 

“It’s up to you, Sammy,” the demon taunted as Sam dropped to his brother’s side. “Give me that gun and I’ll be on my way. Try to keep it from me, and you’ll have to live with your brother’s blood on your hands.”

 

Dean clutched Sam’s jacket with one hand, fingers curling over the breast pocket. “Don’t give it to him, Sam,” he gasped. “It’s not worth it.”  _ I’m not worth it _ , Sam read behind his eyes.

 

Sam glared at Azazel. He could smell the demon’s blood, so much more potent than Ruby’s, pulsing just under his stolen skin. Sam’s nostrils flared. It wouldn’t take much. He’d only need a few swallows and he’d be powerful enough to get him and Dean out of this mess. 

 

“Sammy, please,” Dean pleaded, pulling Sam’s gaze back to him. Dean was fading fast, his eyes struggling to focus. Sam’s knuckles whitened, clutching the box protecting the Colt. That was the only card he had to play. His powers were gone, and there was no way to get them back in time to save Dean.

 

Sam eased Dean to the concrete floor. Azazel watched hungrily, licked his lips. Sam flipped the latch on the box. 

 

***

 

_ Cas, wherever you are, please come back.  _ Dean prayed with all his might.  _ We’ll die without your help.  _

 

Above him, Sam started to open the box, ready to hand over the Colt to save Dean. They both knew the demon would kill him anyway, but Dean no longer had enough strength to beg Sam to stop, the stabbing pain in his chest a vice that kept his lungs from filling. Overhead, the fluorescent bulbs flickered, blurry lines of light to Dean’s eyes.

 

“Get away from them.” Cas’s growl came from far away, behind Azazel, and relief rolled over Dean like a freight train as the pain let up. 

 

Dean let his eyes close for a moment, digging deep to stay conscious. Sam’s arm tightened around his shoulders, pulling him upright. 

 

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam urged. “Get up.” 

 

Dean heard scuffling, then Azazel sneered. “Not quite on your A-game, I see. You should choose your battles more wisely, little guardian.”

 

Leaning on Sam, Dean managed to climb to his feet. Azazel and Cas had squared off, and the angel held a silver knife — no,  _ sword  _ — expertly in his right hand. “You will not touch them again,” he growled, lunging forward.

 

The fight only lasted a few seconds. Dean’s heart jumped to his throat, the fell to his stomach. Cas was no match for the demon, even armed. He looked hurt before they even started. A heartbeat later, Dean’s best friend and last hope was on his knees, Azazel standing over him with the angel’s knife press against his throat.

 

“Nice try, tree-topper, but I’m outta your league.” He tensed, ready to drive the blade through Cas’s throat. 

 

“Stop!” Dean yelled, staggering forward.

 

Azazel quirked an eyebrow. “You care about him enough to die for him?” he marveled. “You’ve only been able to see him for a day.” 

 

“I won’t let you kill him.”

 

The demon laughed. “I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

 

Dean kept his gaze on Cas. He saw in his eyes the angel knew what he was about to do, could probably read it in his mind, or blood, or soul. 

 

“Dean, no,” Cas whispered.

 

Dean half-smiled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he replied, then rushed forward. 

 

Dean tried to tackle Azazel, wrapped both arms around his middle and planted his feet, but the demon pivoted, shoving Cas to the side. The demon twisted one arm gracefully around Dean’s head, palm to his chin, elbow at the back of his head. 

 

_ Oh shit _ . 

 

With a brutal jerk, Azazel snapped Dean’s neck. 

 

A flash of pain more intense than he’d ever felt. 

 

Darkness. 

 

_ Light _ .

 

***

 

“No!” Sam’s anguished scream echoed through the small room.

 

Cas couldn’t make a sound, his whole being paralyzed with shock and pain. He had failed, utterly. 

 

“Well, now that’s done...” Azazel released Dean, his body dropping to the floor in a crumpled heap. “Bring me the gun, Sam. You don’t have any reason left to fight.” 

 

Tears streaming down his face, Sam tore open the box and pulled out the Colt. 

 

Cas could see the power in the metal, even with his grace still sluggish from Zachariah’s ministrations.  He hadn’t forgotten, though. Despite everything, he’d taken the pain and pretended to let go of Dean, but nothing could erase their bond. 

 

His resistance was pointless. Dean was dead, and all Cas had was his memory. 

 

“I’m going to kill you.” Sam’s cold voice snapped Cas out of his anguish. The young man shoved a bullet into the Colt and aimed at Azazel. Cas scuttled backward into the devil’s trap painted on the floor, resting beside Sam.

 

“Careful where you point that thing, Sammy. You might hurt somebody,” he taunted. “You shoot me, Fred here goes down, too, you know.” 

 

Sam’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace. 

 

The demon looked down at Castiel and jerked his head. “Little Sammy’s gonna start the Apocalypse without big bro to keep him on the rails,” he said, as though confiding a secret. “Angels aren’t the only ones who know how to... How do you put it?...  _ nudge _ humans.” 

 

He turned back to Sam, a placating hand held out. “Give me the gun, Sam.” His voice reverberated through the room, and Castiel could feel the slimy power of it coating everything. 

 

Sam’s hand shook. 

 

Cas laid a hand on his hip. “Remember what Dean would want you to do.” 

 

Sam grit his teeth.

 

Azazel smiled at him. “Dean’s dead, Sam. What he wanted doesn’t have to control your life anymore.” 

 

Sam’s brow twitched. He glanced down at Cas, and the angel read the strategy in his eyes. Sam turned back to Azazel, lowering the gun. 

 

“Can you bring him back?”

 

Ignoring the demon’s horrible, elated expression, Castiel closed his eyes and centered himself, sending his focus down into his center, coaxing his grace. It was like lifting a mountain made of air, impossible to hold. He could hear Sam negotiating with Azazel above him, stalling. 

 

“Done. How do we seal the deal?” Sam’s voice was steady. Castiel didn’t want to know what price he’d just agreed to pay for his brother’s life. 

 

No matter how steep, he knew they both would pay it gladly. 

 

“Simple. A kiss,” the demon hissed. 

 

Sam stepped forward.

 

Castiel stretched his wings and flew, appearing behind Azazel. He levered his arms beneath the demon’s and crossed his wrists at his neck, a move Dean had shown him.  _ Give ‘em the full nelson next time _ , his voice echoed in Cas’s mind. 

 

“Now, Sam!” He yelled.

 

Sam fired. 

 

Cas tracked the bullet as it exploded out of the barrel, streaming through the air toward them. Azazel fought, but Cas held on until the bullet hit home.

 

Azazel’s shocked face lit from within with flashes of golden light, bolts of energy shooting from the hole in his heart out to his fingers. He collapsed onto the concrete, eyes and mouth wide open. 

 

Sam and Cas stood over the body, smoke wafting upward from the Colt’s barrel. Neither of them knew the right words to say. 

 

After a moment, Sam spoke. “I think I would have done it.” 

 

Cas looked up at him. 

 

“I would have given Azazel the Colt, done whatever he asked me to, if you weren’t here,” he confessed. “I don’t think I’d have been strong enough without you.”

 

Cas peered into Sam’s eyes. “You’re stronger than you realize, Sam Winchester.”

 

Tears fell, but Sam nodded his thanks. He turned and knelt beside his brother’s body. “Can you bring him back?”

 

Castiel shook his head. His grace told him guardians were for life, only. He could not revive his friend and charge.

 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Sam begged. “I just... I just want a little more time with him.”

 

Cas’s head snapped up.  _ Time _ .

 

His grace leapt inside him, more lively than it had been since he first became an angel. It told him they would need more power to do what he planned, but that it was possible. 

 

“Sam, I think there is something I can try, but I need your help.”

 

Sam wiped his face. “What can I do?”

 

Cas squatted beside him. “I need to take some energy from your soul.”

 

Sam blinked. “What?”

 

“Human souls are made of pure energy,” he explained. “I’m going to try to jump back in time just far enough to save Dean, but I need more power.”

 

Sam stared at him for a second. “Do it.”

 

Castiel pressed his right palm to Sam’s chest and  _ reached _ with his grace. Sam’s soul stretched out toward him, eager to help. The man’s chest glowed as Castiel siphoned power, so much  _ strength _ he couldn’t believe it all existed inside one person. Castiel opened his eyes, their light reflecting on Sam’s glistening face. 

 

“If this works, I’ll be back in a moment,” he told Sam. “If it doesn’t, go back to Jess. Keep the Colt safe.” Cas paused, thought of what Dean would say. “Remember what Dean taught you about life, about  _ living _ . Hold on to his memory, Sam, and you’ll not be led astray.”

 

Eyes shining, Sam nodded. He pulled Cas in for a rough hug, whispered in his ear, “Thank you.” 

 

Cas stepped back a few paces, closed his eyes, and jumped into the rushing rapids of Time.

 

The currents buffeted him back and forth, flashes of incomprehensible moments flowing around him. Castiel focused, pointed his grace toward  _ Dean _ , and flew. 

 

The landing was a bit rough, Castiel is humble enough to admit. Hidden from human sight, he crashed into the outside of the storage locker. Flying inside, Castiel kept his grace coiled tight inside his vessel, shielding himself from the demon for as long as possible. 

 

Azazel had his arm wrapped around Dean’s head, poised to kill him. Castiel surged forward. He heard bone snap the instant he wrapped a hand around Dean’s bicep. Cas dove back into Time’s slipstream, healing as he flew. 

 

Carrying Dean made the flight more difficult, but Castiel managed the landing. Dean was still unconscious, but fully healed, lying next to his own corpse on the floor of the locker. Before Sam could even register their arrival, Cas switched his grip from the living Dean to the body, and flew again. 

 

He followed his own trail back to the locker, replacing Dean’s body the instant he disappeared with it on his first trip. Azazel would be none the wiser, and Sam would still kill him. Satisfied, Castiel gathered himself for one last flight. 

 

His fourth and final landing was definitely a crash landing. Grace spent, he slammed into inside the wall of the storage locker, knocking boxes down onto himself. He didn’t have the energy to care. 

 

Gradually, he registered hands moving the fallen boxes off of him. Two sets of hands.

 

“Dean.” 

 

“Yeah, Cas. I’m right here.” It was so good to hear his voice.

 

“Thank god.”

 

“More like ‘thank  _ you _ ,’ from what Sam says.”

 

Castiel forced his eyes open and smiled at Dean. “Just doing my job.” 

  
Then, for the first time since he became an angel, Cas passed out. 


	11. Chapter 10

Castiel opened his eyes to the white office with gray cabinets. He stood before another suited angel, this one with brown hair and a kind face that belied her steely eyes. 

 

He sighed. “So which one are you?”

 

Her eyes tightened. “My name is Naomi. I’ve replaced Zachariah as the superior for the guardians. You are now under my jurisdiction.”

 

Great. “Why am I here?”

 

“I think you know, Castiel.”

 

He met her gaze, unflinching. “I travel through time in order to save my charge’s life, in order to prevent the end of the world. If that’s deserving of punishment, then punish me.”

 

She pursed her lips. “Oh, you’ll be disciplined. What I want to know is  _ how  _ you did it. No guardian should be strong enough to fly through time so precisely and so many times in rapid succession, much less carry a living human with them.”

 

Cas cast his eyes skyward. “I just did it,” he lied. “Dean was dead, and I knew how to fix it.” 

 

Naomi’s eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth to speak, but a familiar bell rang. Another manilla folder fell through a small hole in the ceiling, slid down a ramp and dropped into the basket on the desk. Naomi’s brow furrowed, but she strode over to the desk and picked up the file. 

 

“This is far outside normal protocol,” she muttered, reading to herself. 

 

She broke the silence by closing the folder and placing it back on the desk, almost reverently. “Come forward,” she commanded.

 

Castiel obeyed, standing at attention in front of his superior.

 

“You have disobeyed, interfering in your charge’s life beyond the call of duty, and disrupted the flow of Time, which may have repercussions throughout Creation. Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

 

Cas didn’t hesitate. “Only that I would do it all again, for the sake of my charge.”

 

Naomi shook her head, but Cas thought he spotted a proud smile peeking through on her face. 

 

“Your punishment is to fall, Castiel,” she intoned. “You will live out your days as a mortal, fending for yourself among the humans. You will be subject to all their faults and fears, and be without your grace and the power that comes with it.”

 

Her face softened. “But we do not forget our own, Castiel. Heaven will still listen, should you choose to pray.” 

 

Cas broke his stance. “That’s it?” he asked, incredulous.

 

She leveled him with a stern look. “To most angels, this sentence would be more terrifying than a century of re-education.”

 

“Right.”

 

She held out her hand. “Your sword.”

 

He drew it and slowly placed it in her palm. He’d only held it for a week, but it felt like giving up a part of himself. 

 

Holding his blade in both hands, Naomi studied it, then him. “You must be something quite special, Cas James Novak.”

 

Cas started in surprise, but Naomi placed a hand on his chest and pushed him backward, and he was falling... falling...

 

“Cas!” Dean’s voice floated somewhere above his head. “Cas, buddy, wake up.”

 

Rough taps against his face forced Cas to open his eyes. “Ouch,” he rasped. “Stop it.” He opened his eyes and saw the dark interior of the Impala, Sam behind the wheel, Dean leaning over the seat to smack Cas in the face.

 

Dean sighed in relief. “You’ve been out for like ten minutes, man. I was getting worried. That’s way beyond ‘go to the ER, you definitely have a concussion’ range.” 

 

Cas stretched, taking stock. “I don’t need medical attention. I actually feel very well, given the circumstances.”

 

“Well, that’s g— Wait. What circumstances?”

 

Cas looked out the window at the streetlights flashing by. “I broke the rules to save you, so I’m being punished.” He looked back at Dean. “I’m human again. Fallen.”

 

Dean looked stricken. “Cas, I’m so sorry.” Sam echoed his condolences, glancing in the rearview mirror.

 

Cas shrugged. “I don’t regret my choice.” He grinned. “Besides, you were a very frustrating man to be a guardian angel for, Dean. Always running into burning buildings.”

 

Dean stared at him for a moment, then grinned back. “I’m a fucking firefighter, Cas! It’s what I do.”

 

Cas pulled himself into a seated position. Lying flat on the seat was murder on his back. “Exactly. You risk your own life to save complete strangers on a regular basis, yet inexplicably you struggle to believe that you yourself deserve saving.”

 

Dean gave him a fond look. “Shut up, feathers. I’m working on it.”

 

Cas smiled, saw Sam’s mouth curve in equal joy. “I’m glad to hear it.”

 

***

 

After a long phone call and a red-eye flight from LAX, Jess met them back in Junction City, sitting cross-legged on the top step of the leaning wooden stoop in front of the house with Dean and Cas’s apartments, picking at the peeling green paint with one hand. She climbed to her feet as the trio pulled up in the Impala, dusting off her hands. 

 

“Look who’s still alive,” she greeted. 

 

“Good to see you too, Jess.” Dean gave a small salute, then bent forward to hug her before opening the outer door. 

 

Sam hung back as his brother and Cas stepped inside. “Hey, Jess.”

 

She smiled at him. “I’m glad you made it back.”

 

He leaned in and pecked her cheek. “Me too.” He pulled the small box with the Colt out of his backpack. “I think you and your family should have this.”

 

Jess placed on hand on the sigil-covered container. “Is this...?”

 

Sam nodded. 

 

Jess swallowed. “I don’t feel right taking this, Sam. Your dad died to get it. Dean almost died protecting it. You used it to kill a big-time demon.” She pressed the box back toward Sam. “It belongs with Winchesters.” 

 

Sam sighed, but returned the case to his backpack. “So, what now?”

 

Jess shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

 

“Honestly? Get my life back to normal, if that’s even possible. Forget all of this ever happened.”

 

Jess’s eyebrows pinched. “Really?”

 

Sam bit his lip, glancing through the front window to watch Cas and Dean putter around the first-floor apartment, arguing about nothing in particular like an old married couple. 

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Cas is going to lay low in Dean’s apartment for a while, since he’s officially dead. I wouldn’t mind sticking around for a bit. Try to start fresh next semester.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I want to ignore what know now, but I don’t think I can. I want to keep helping people.”

 

Jess squeezed his arm. “I know the feeling. You want to get away from the craziness of monsters, but you don’t want anyone to get hurt, either.”

 

“How did you do it?” Sam asked.

 

Jess smiled and shook her head. “I didn’t. Not really. I left for college but I still keep tabs on the area, watching for supernatural activity. If I see something not right, I send up the bat signal.”

 

“So you’re Commissioner Gordon?”

 

Jess laughed. “Only if that makes Uncle Bobby Batman.”

 

Sam smiled. “I think I could live with that. Will you go home right away?”

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

Sam paused. “I want you to want to stay,” he said finally. “It’s your choice. I fucked up my academics beyond belief, but you might still have a shot at getting into your top choice med schools if you go back now. I don’t want to ruin that for you.”

 

“This little impromptu hiatus isn’t doing my GPA any favors, true, but I’m pretty sure it can take the hit.” She grinned and slapped his shoulder. “Yours is totally FUBAR, though.”

 

“So, you’re going to stay?”

 

She shrugged. “I rented out a room at the Motel 6 for a month, so I might as well get my money’s worth.”

 

Sam hugged her tightly. “Thanks, Jess.”

 

She patted his back. “Thank  _ you _ , Sam. You and Dean kept some pretty serious shit away from the rest of us.”

 

Sam wiped his eyes — Jess kindly pretended not to notice — and they followed Dean and Cas into the house.

 

***

 

Somehow, Dean expected Marv’s to be different. He and Cas had changed so much in the week since they’d been here, it felt jarring to see the same old mismatched artwork, scratched tables, and mosaic floor. 

 

“What are you gonna do now?” he asked Cas. Officially undead Cas. 

 

The ex-angel shook his head. “I’m not sure. I guess find someplace to start a new life? Someplace where people don’t look at me and think ‘hey, didn’t that guy die?’.”  

 

Dean chewed on his lower lip, fingers tapping a staccato against their table. “Sam and Jess are heading back to Palo Alto in a couple weeks.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about tagging along.”

 

“Move to California? You don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps, become a hunter?” 

 

“I thought about it.” Dean shrugged. “I just feel like that was  _ his  _ crusade, you know? Jess and her family have it covered. I want to just keep saving people the way I know how.” 

 

Cas’s lips quirked. “By running into burning buildings?”

 

Dean grinned, turned his sarcasms up to full power. “Yep. Like all the other smart people.” 

 

Cas wet his lips. “So, how does that work? Do you just re-apply at a different fire station?”

 

Dean nodded. “Kinda. I’d put in a transfer request for their station, pick up odd jobs in the meantime. Sam said I could crash in his and Jess’s spare bedroom until I find a place of my own.”

 

“That sounds wonderful, Dean.” Cas’s tremulous smile and shuttered eyes told Dean the enthusiasm was forced.

 

Dean’s face fell. He wanted so badly to find a scenario where he didn’t have to choose between his brother and his best friend. “You don’t want to go?”

 

Cas’s eyes widened. “You want me to come?”

 

Ah. Despite almost four years of friendship, Dean’s communication skills still sucked ass, apparently. He almost spilled Cas’s coffee reaching over to grab his wrist. “Dude,  _ of course _ I want you to come!” He hesitated. Maybe he’d misread Cas’s reaction. “Only if you want to, I mean. I don’t want to force you.”

 

Cas smiled. “I’m your guardian angel Dean, remember? I’m with you as long as you’ll have me, from now until forever.” 

  
Dean smiled back, caught up in the sappiness in spite of himself. “Forever it is, then.”


	12. Epilogue

Dean almost couldn’t hear the wailing of the siren over his pulse pounding in his ears. The rig was too slow. Light speed was too slow. 

His whole life was on fire.

The call came in three minutes ago. 325 Pinnicky, the whole thing’s gone up. Be careful out there, boys. Jo’s voice echoed in Dean’s skull, words that lodged Dean’s heart in his throat.

After an eternity, the rig pulled up curbside. Dean leapt out and ran for his burning home, praying to a God he still didn’t trust.

“Winchester! Get back here!” Hendricksen’s command fell on deaf ears. The heat from the blaze had melted winter’s first snow into puddles on the walkway, splashing as Dean jogged toward the front door. 

“Dean!” He spun around, breathed again.

Sam stood in the neighboring yard, arms around Jess, Cas at their side. 

A rough hand landed on Dean’s shoulder. “Get your head back in the game, Dean,” Walker chided. “Finish the staring contest with your boyfriend after we get this bitch under control.”

Fortunately, getting the blaze under control didn’t take very long. 

Unfortunately, that was because the flames destroyed the house in a matter of minutes, so all the firemen could do was soak the neighboring buildings to prevent it from spreading.

Dean made his way over to his family, passing the smoldering ruins of the roof he’d kept over his head for longer than any other in his life (except you, Baby, he amended, glad she was safe and sound, parked back at the station). 

Dean pulled his mask off as he approached. “You guys all okay?”

Sam and Jess nodded, shaken, but alright. Cas glared at the ashes. “I could have prevented this, not long ago.”

Dean smiled. Of course Cas felt guilty. “Don’t worry about it, man. I always said that place would burn down one day.”

Jess’s eyes widened. “And you still lived there?”

“What can I say? I like to live dangerously.” Dean shrugged. “And the rent is cheap as hell. Or was, I guess...”

The four of them watched Dean’s coworkers douse the last of the smoldering chunks of wood and burned furniture.

Dean sighed. “Well, good thing Cas and I decided to move in with you and Jess out in Cali, Sam. Hope you’re okay with that.”

Sam smiled softly. “I’m glad you’re coming with us.”

Jess smacked both their arms. “It’s my name on the lease, guys!”

***

Two weeks later, the four of them had settled into something resembling a normal routine out in Palo Alto. Sam and Jess attended their classes, Dean navigated the onboarding program at his new station (transferred from Junction City), and Cas worked at a non-profit assisting low-income individuals and families with their finances. They were able to have dinner together most nights, Sam and Jess splitting off afterward to study and Dean continuing Cas’s education in all things pop culture. 

Dean slept better than he ever has in his entire life, all the people important to him safe under one roof. Maybe that made him codependent. He really didn’t care. He’d decided to savor each uninterrupted eight-hour stretch on the divine memory-foam mattress he shared with Cas (which had been a whole other discussion, but the second bedroom didn’t fit two beds, and neither one of them wanted to force the other onto the couch as a long-term solution). 

Old paranoias die slow deaths, though, which is how Dean knew Cas was staring at him in the dark. 

“Cas, are you watching me sleep?”

A beat of silence, then: “You’re not sleeping yet.”

Dean sighed, keeping his eyes closed. “Creepy, dude. Dial it back a bit.”

Cas rolled over and settled in on the other side of the bed. Dean had almost drifted off when a rhythmic thumping from above them brought him back to full awareness. He scrunched his forehead. What the hell was that noise? 

A muffled moan drifted down from the ceiling, and Dean covered his ears with the pillow. 

It didn’t stop. Damn, Dean did not need to know this about his brother’s stamina.

“I do believe they’ve just broken your record, Dean,” Cas drawled, seemingly unfazed. 

“Oh my god,” Dean groaned. “Cas, I’m so sorry I put you through this.”

Cas sighed and rolled over, draping an arm across Dean’s shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

Dean shuddered. “We’re getting our own place, asap.”

“Our place,” Cas echoed. “I’d like that.”


End file.
